Nanikio

Rogers and Barnes,

How are you two doing? It’s been a long time since we last saw each other. Don’t even bother asking how things are over here in the city. I’m surrounded by people younger than me, dressed in suits and ties, commanding me around. Can you imagine how insulting that is for us men nearing forty? Hell, I miss sitting in the front yard of the old house, jamming on our guitars and banjos. I miss that connection. You can’t find anything like that in the city.

Anyway, let me get to the point. You remember my daughter, right? It’s been years since you folks saw her. Since she graduated college, she’s dying to ‘travel the world’ before falling into the hands of corporate life like her old man. She’s growing up too fast, I’ll tell ya.

She came up to me one day and said, “Dad, I wanna travel the world. I wanna go to Europe!” You can imagine the smile on my face. I told her, “Well, if you wanna start traveling, how about you play it safe and start in the States? The countryside, for example. I know a place you can stay. You remember Uncle Steve and Uncle Bucky?” She just scrunched her nose, shook her head, and said, “Nope!”

I know this is a little last minute, but the girl started packing her bags and hopped on a flight before I could give her the full rundown or even ask for your permission. Be careful when you have kids of your own—especially daughters.

I gave her your guys’ address, and she said she’ll be showing up at your front door this weekend. I tried to stop her, but once she starts running, it’s impossible to catch up. Especially when you’re getting older each day. I’m sure you two understand.

I worry about her, and I trust you two with my life. I ask that you folks give her the experience we had when we were younger and carefree.

Show her the life I’m missing out on by being stuck here.

Thanks, guys.

Take care of my little girl.

Bucky scoffed at the letter, gripping it tightly in his calloused, dirty hands. “Are you kiddin’ me?”

Steve entered through the front door, kicking off his heavy leather boots and pulling off his gloves. “What is it, Buck?” he huffed, nodding to the piece of paper. “What’s that in your hand?”

Bucky didn’t glance up. He took a sip of his beer and held the letter over his shoulder.

“You remember Crazy Clyde?” Bucky said with a satisfied exhale. “He sent us a letter—askin’ us to look over his daughter.”

Steve furrowed his brows. He hadn’t heard that name in a long time, much less anything recent about his daughter. “Crazy Clyde?”

The funny part was, Clyde wasn’t even your father’s real name. It was a nickname given to him back when he was growing up in the country alongside Steve and Bucky. The name spoke for itself—he was a shit talker who ran his mouth across half the damn town. It was even worse when he was drunk. “Clyde” only came after because it rang well together, and country folks loved stringing words together, especially when it came to insults.

Steve grabbed the letter, removing his cowboy hat and setting it on the table. His blue eyes raked over the words, his brows pinching together more and more until he reached the very bottom.

“Hell,” he breathed. “When did you get this?”

“Just got it in the mail today,” Bucky explained.

“Christ,” Steve shook his head, rereading the letter as if the ink might change. “Those damn mail carriers. Always takes long as shit.”

Both men wore unpleasant looks on their worn and aged faces. Their day had been tiresome, leaving their muscles aching for any form of relief. Now here they were, standing in a home that was in absolutely no position to be hospitable to a girl they hadn’t seen in over a decade—the daughter of an old friend they hadn’t spoken to in months.

“‘A little last minute,’” Bucky repeated the words on the letter with a bitter scoff, taking another sip of his cold beer. “Talk about an understatement.”

“Buck,” Steve finally set the paper down, hovering over his seated friend. “Crazy Clyde said his daughter would be droppin’ in this weekend.” He gulped, staring his friend dead in the eye as they reached a silent, mutual realization.

“Today is—”

“—Saturday,” Bucky finished.

For a minute, silence took up their space. They looked around their home, taking in the state of it; the couch barely standing on its wooden support beams, the beer and juice stains circling the dining table, and their dirty boots and gloves sprawled across the entrance. To top it all off, they had a mounted deer head hung on the wall that would likely send any city girl running home in tears.

“Hell,” Steve breathed, looking around the room in defeat. “Maybe she’ll come by tomorrow.”

“Either way,” Bucky interrupted, running a tired hand down his face. “We don’t have the time, the energy, or the livin’ space to just… let someone stay with us.”

Steve let out a heavy, frustrated sigh, the sound vibrating deep in his broad chest. He looked at the cramped quarters, then back at Bucky’s exhausted expression, and finally gave a sharp, reluctant nod in agreement.

“Alright,” Steve huffed, rubbing the back of his neck. “But let’s say… she actually shows up on our doorstep. What do we even say to her?”

Bucky leaned back, his chair creaking as he folded his arms over his chest, staring up at his best friend. “Then we tell her, ‘Sorry, kid. Your daddy gave us late notice and we aren’t fit to babysit while you ‘explore’ the countryside. How about you try Italy instead?’”

“That’s cold, Buck.”

“No,” Bucky cut him off, slamming his beer down on the table and standing up. “You know what’s cold, Stevie? A man who hasn’t spoken to us in years and only sendin’ us a letter when he needs a favor. The city made him soft and spoiled. I bet he raised that daughter of his a spoiled brat, too.”

Steve rolled his eyes. If there was one thing he knew about Bucky, it was that his friend was fiercely protective—possessive, even—of the things he loved. Bucky didn’t do well with interlopers. For their entire lives, it had been just the two of them, and the whole town knew it.

When Sam Wilson first moved to town and Steve started befriending the kind fella, Bucky had been like a territorial cat—hissing and hair standing up every time Sam’s name was mentioned, or if the man was even breathing the same air as Steve.

It was only after months of knowing each other that Sam and Bucky finally became close.

But other than that, Bucky believed anyone outside their usual circle had bad intentions, like they were trying to tear the two of them apart. What they had was a rare, productive, and close partnership that always got the dirty work done—a friendship you’d never find anywhere else.

And with you coming into town—well, in Bucky’s mind, that was going to ruin everything.

Steve let out a deep sigh. “You know what? Fine,” he said with a shrug.

It was already Saturday—and the chances of you arriving ‘this weekend’ were already cutting it short. For all they knew, you’d chickened out and weren’t going to show up at all.

“If this lady shows up on our doorstep, we’ll just turn her down and send her the other way. Happy?”

The corner of Bucky’s lip twitched into the slightest smirk, though he tried to hide it. He just ran his tongue over his teeth beneath his lips and gave a sharp nod.

“Glad we can come to an agreement.”

Steve couldn’t help but grin at his friend’s reaction. He reached for his cowboy hat, settling it over his head and giving Bucky’s shoulder a firm pat. “Enough bickerin’ about ‘what-ifs.’ The horsies need feedin’.”

As Steve approached the front door, Bucky grabbed his own cowboy hat from the hanger and adjusted it over his head. Steve reached for the knob, and as he swung the door wide, ready to breathe in the cool country air, the sight on the other side made the air leave his lungs instead.

There you stood, your hand frozen mid-air, knuckles inches away from where the wood had been just a second ago.

You looked like a fever dream against the backdrop of the dusty porch and green fields. You were wearing designer clothes that probably cost more than their truck and shoes that were never meant for gravel, with a mountain of expensive luggage flanking your sides.

Steve stood there frozen, his large frame filling the doorway. His eyes raked over you with disbelief and something warm… like a sudden, simmering heat building in his groin at the sight of a beautiful woman—

“Who the hell are you?” Bucky’s gruff voice rang out from behind him.

Your face, bewildered at the sight of the two burly, older men in front of you, softened slightly as you smiled despite the rude introduction.

“Uncle Steve, Uncle Bucky,” you breathed, letting your hand fall to extend a polite greeting. “It’s nice to see you guys again!”

You forced a polite, cheerful tone, though the words leaving your lips were a lie and a half. Calling these two men ‘Uncle’—men you hadn’t seen since you could barely speak—felt entirely foreign on your lips.

When your father brought up the idea of you staying in the countryside, he spoke of Steve Rogers and James Barnes with such wonder in his eyes. You were pretty sure you’d never even seen him talk about your own mother the way he did those two.

He’d shown you photographs from their golden days, and they were ridiculously handsome. Your father told you James—who went by Bucky—was the local ladies’ man, and his looks certainly proved it. Steve had been smaller then, thinner, but still just as good looking.

That’s who you expected to see standing on this porch. Instead, you were face to face with walls of muscle hidden beneath dirty denim, heavy boots, and cowboy hats. They were older—much older than the two boys in the photos.

They both wore thick facial hair now. Steve’s was dense, with blonde hair curling at the nape of his neck and blue eyes that looked visibly tired and stern. Bucky had salt and pepper peeking through his stubble. His hair was shorter than Steve’s, and his eyes were much more guarded—agitated, almost.

Bucky’s arms were folded tightly over his chest as he glared down at you like you were some common solicitor.

You swallowed hard, averting your eyes from Bucky’s rude gaze to meet Steve’s—who looked far more approachable and kind, if only by comparison.

“You guys are my father’s friends, right? I hope you got the letter letting you know that I'm…”

Bucky nudged Steve hard in the arm, as if trying to signal him for something.

You frowned, your voice trailing off. “…staying here.”

Steve straightened up as if snapping out of a daydream, not sparing Bucky a single glance. “Uh, yes. Right,” he grunted. “We got the letter, darlin’.”

You beamed, a smile spreading across your features. “Great! Um,” you stood on your tiptoes, trying to peek over that wall of broad shoulders and into the house. “Where should I put my stuff—?”

But Bucky stepped forward, propping one arm high against the doorframe, leaning down at you as he blocked your view and path.

“Sorry, kid,” Bucky grunted, though he didn’t sound sorry at all.

“Your daddy gave us a late notice, and we aren’t fit to babysit while you ‘xplore the countryside.” He shot Steve a look, his next question coming out with a harsh bite. “How ‘bout you try Paris instead?”

Steve just grinned, glancing at Bucky before stepping aside to let you in anyway. “I thought the suggestion was Italy, Buck?”

You could’ve sworn you heard Bucky mutter a litany of curses under his breath, but Steve paid him no mind. He leaned down, grabbing two suitcases at a time as if they weighed nothing, and hauled them into the living room.

“Come on, Buck,” Steve called back. “Help the little lady out.”

Bucky stayed against the doorframe for a second longer. The height difference was dizzying. You had to tilt your head back, straining the column of your neck just to meet his eyes beneath the shadow of his cowboy hat.

He didn’t look like a family friend at all.

He looked like a stormy, grumpy, old raincloud.

Your dad was actually friends with this guy?

After a few more curses, Bucky finally pushed himself off the wall and he moved with a begrudging pace, stepping deep into your personal space to snatch up the remaining bags. He didn’t just take them—he jerked them off the porch as if they were an inconvenience.

As he straightened up, his broad chest nearly brushed your shoulder. The scent of cedar, tobacco, and old leather hit you all at once, making your nose scrunch up. He cut his eyes down at you, giving you one last glare that essentially promised your stay wouldn’t be a vacation.

“Thank you—” you started, the words small and tentative.

Bucky didn’t even let you finish. He let out a grumpy, unintelligible grunt, turned his back on you, and hauled the luggage inside.

Steve set the heavy suitcases onto the floorboards, sending dust particles dancing in the shafts of sunlight cutting through the windows.

He straightened up, but before he could even offer you a tour, Bucky’s hand clamped onto his shoulder.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was low and dangerous. “A word. Now.”

Steve didn’t look surprised—he just looked tired. He gave you a warm, apologetic look that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Make yourself at home, darlin’. Use the water filter if you’re thirsty. We’ll be back in a second.”

Bucky’s entire face contorted into a grimace at the ‘darlin’’ comment. It was a good thing the brim of his hat shielded most of his expression. He hooked his fingers into the back of Steve’s jacket and hauled him toward the narrow hallway. You watched as Steve practically got dragged around the corner, a startled little “Oof!” escaping his lips as Bucky pulled him out of view.

You were left standing in the middle of the living room, feeling unwelcome and entirely out of place.

When your father spoke of these two, he made them sound like friendly, caring men—which had only fueled your excitement for the beginnings of your trip.

But now, standing there and staring up at a mounted deer head in the center of the wall, you were starting to wonder if this was a massive mistake after all.

“Steve, are you shittin’ me right now?” Bucky hissed just around the corner. “Whatever happened to ‘if this lady shows up on our doorstep, we’ll just turn her down and send her the other way’?”

“Come on.” Steve rested both hands on his hips, giving his friend a scolding look. “The girl traveled all this way just to see us.”

“Not us,” Bucky corrected sharply. “She wanted to visit the town.”

Steve continued anyway, ignoring the bite in Bucky’s tone. “She’s only goin’ to be here for—what? A couple of days? We can at least manage that, Bucky.”

Bucky shook his head in disbelief, his hand coming up to grip the back of his neck. “I can't believe this. Where is she even going to sleep, Steve? On that couch? It can barely hold the two of us for a Sunday beer, let alone a princess for a week.”

“Your room,” Steve said flatly.

Bucky’s eyes practically bulged out of his head. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a vibrating growl. “My room? Are you outta’ your goddamn mind? Where the hell am I supposed to go?”

“You can sleep in mine. My bed is big enough for both of us, and far comfier than yours anyway.” Steve watched Bucky’s face carefully, a trace of a smirk playing on his lips. “Technically, I’m doin’ you a favor.”

Bucky opened his mouth to argue—to tell Steve exactly where he could shove his ‘favor’—but the words died in a frustrated, incoherent mumble.

A heavy silence fell between them. Then, they both leaned out slightly, glancing back toward the living room where you were still standing, looking small and out of place beneath that mounted deer head.

Steve’s gaze softened, his expression turning thoughtful.

“She’s a real beauty, ain’t she?” Steve murmured, his voice turning almost fond. “She’s all grown up now.”

It was a miracle you couldn’t feel the daggers Bucky was glaring into your back. His jaw clenched at Steve’s words, though he didn’t deny it entirely.

“She’s trouble, Steve. That’s what she is.”

“Buck,” Steve turned to him, his voice dropping slightly. “She’s just a girl with dreams bigger than her own head. Her father chose us, even if it’s been,” he blew raspberries, “years since he reached out properly. He was a close friend before he moved away. He did a lot for us—the least we can do is this.”

Bucky shifted his boots uncomfortably, his gaze lingering back on you for a moment longer than he intended. Through the gap in the hallway, he watched as you reached out a hesitant hand to touch the worn fabric of an old armchair, your eyes wide and glassy with wonder.

It was the same look he and Steve used to have back in the day—when the world felt big and full of promise, before the years had weathered them down.

You looked so innocent, completely untainted, and for some reason—especially knowing you were his close friend’s daughter—it was a look he wanted to protect. Though he would never admit it aloud.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, looking down at his boots before meeting Steve’s eyes again.

“Fine,” Bucky rasped, the word barely more than a growl. “But if she breaks somethin’—or if she starts actin’ like a spoiled little brat, I ain’t the one who’s gonna be gentle ‘bout it.”

“Hey,” Steve warned, though he couldn’t help the smile on his lips. “Play nice.”

“You want me to play nice?” Bucky huffed, already turning away. “I’ll show you how I play nice.”

He adjusted his hat, squared his shoulders, and stepped back into the living room. The floorboards creaked under his heavy boots, announcing his return.

“Alright, princess,” Bucky grumbled, his voice startling you as he marched toward your luggage. “Ain’t no five-star fancy hotel, and your tour guide ain’t like the young ones you see in the magazines.” He groaned, hoisting two of your suitcases. “Follow me. I’ll show you where you’re gonna be stayin’ before I change my mind.”

You blinked, not fully processing Bucky’s words until he was already halfway down the hall. He stopped, looking over his shoulder when he realized you weren’t following him.

“Well?” he huffed, his forehead wrinkling as he glared at you. “You comin’? Or do you need me to carry you, too?”

You quickly forced yourself off the couch, the floorboards creaking as your footsteps caught up to him. He let out a grunt of approval and turned back around, leading you toward the bedrooms. Your eyes couldn’t help but trace the broadness of Bucky’s shoulders from behind. He sauntered in front of you, his forearms flexed and straining with the weight of your suitcases.

Despite all his grumpiness, he was an undeniably strong, capable, and handsome man.

So, how could you not stare?

You nearly bumped into him when he came to an abrupt stop in front of a closed door. Setting one of the suitcases down, he turned the knob and pushed the door open.

Stepping inside, it didn’t take long to realize this was Bucky’s personal space.

The bed was covered in dark blue plaid sheets that had been left unmade. Drawers were cracked open with clothes and socks peeking out. The room carried a scent that was uniquely Bucky—heavy on the masculine notes of cedarwood and worn leather.

“Well, this is it,” Bucky announced, stepping inside and dropping your suitcases in the middle of the floor.

“Your room?” you frowned, following him and taking in the rustic surroundings. “My dad told me you guys had a big family house. I… I thought I’d be staying in a guest room or something. Not one of your own bedrooms…”

“Yeah, well—your old man’s memory’s all fucked up,” Bucky grumbled, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms.

You bit your lower lip as guilt started to eat at you. You were a woman who prided herself on making good first impressions—a trait your father had drilled into you early. In the city, a good impression meant more connections, and connections meant moving up in the world. It was a survival tactic back home.

With that in mind, the way Bucky was deliberately avoiding your gaze killed you inside.

“I’m sorry—”

But before you could fully express your apology, Steve’s heavy footsteps sounded behind you. He propped an arm against the doorframe, grinning broadly.

“Don’t get too comfortable in here just yet,” Steve said, clearly trying to lighten the tense mood. “You wanted a taste of the countryside, right? Let’s go show you the rest of it.”

To say you wanted a taste of the countryside was a bit of a stretch—your father had only agreed to let you travel if you started here first. With Bucky’s gaze still digging daggers into your back, you felt hesitant, but Steve was so warm, his smile so genuine, that you were grateful for him extending a grapevine.

“You know what? Sure, that sounds nice,” you said, forcing a smile before turning back to Bucky. “Will you be coming?”

“Waste my energy walkin’ around a place I’ve seen a million times just ‘cause a pretty girl shows up on my doorstep?” Bucky looked down at his nails, deciding they were far more interesting than you. “No thanks.”

“Don’t mind him,” Steve leaned in close, offering a small, reassuring smile. “He’s all bark, no bite. He’ll come around.”

With a gentle hand hovering near your lower back, he guided you out of the bedroom and away from Bucky’s brooding presence. Steve walked you through the rest of the rustic home, pointing out the bathroom—a simple but clean space with a clawfoot tub.

“Shower’s right through there,” he noted, gesturing to the brass fixtures. “Water takes a minute to get hot, but once it does, it’ll practically peel your skin off, so be careful.”

Next was the kitchen, which felt like the heart of the house with its cast-iron pans and the scent of bitter coffee. A small, round wooden table sat in the middle with only two chairs. It was clear they weren’t used to company; the house was built for the two of them and them alone. Steve paused at the table, eyeing the two chairs before letting out a small huff of a laugh.

“We don’t have another dinin’ chair, so I hope you don’t mind sittin’ on one of our laps.”

Your face immediately flushed as the words registered. “W-what—?”

“I’m just messin’ around, buttercup,” Steve snickered, though it didn’t sound much like a joke.

Finally, he led you out onto the wide, wraparound porch. Several chairs and comfy benches were scattered about, far more accommodating than the seating inside.

“This is where we gather ‘round, bring some folks over and play some tunes,” Steve explained, gesturing to the seats.

You raised a brow. “You guys play instruments?”

“Guitar,” Steve said, adjusting his hat. “And Bucky plays the harmonica.”

The guitar was fitting for Steve, but you couldn’t help but giggle at the image of a man as grumpy as Bucky Barnes whipping out a harmonica and going to town. Steve’s grin widened at the sound of your laughter.

“You’re gigglin’ now, but just watch,” he pointed a finger at you jokingly. “He’s quite the player. We’ll have to show you sometime.”

Now that you could stand on the porch without the chaos of hauling luggage, the view was absolutely breathtaking. Vast, rolling green fields seemed to touch the sky, turning golden in the afternoon sun. Steve glanced down at you, taking in the way you stared into the distance, your eyes wide and full of wonder as a soft “Wow” escaped your lips.

“Beautiful, ain’t it?” Steve smiled, sweeping a hand toward the horizon as you stepped into the front yard. “No skyscrapers to block the view, and the only neighbors you’ll hear are the chickens, the cattle, and the horses.”

“It’s beautiful,” you murmured, letting the fresh air fill your lungs in a way city air never could. “It’s different, but it’s beautiful.”

Steve turned, his smile softening as he caught sight of you. With the afternoon sun hitting you just right—with the soft wind blowing in your hair and the sunlight and catching the gleam in your eyes—he seemed to find you much more interesting than the landscape.

To Steve, you were absolutely breathtaking. He knew that if your father were here right now, he’d slap him silly for the way he was staring, let alone for the impure thoughts running through his mind. He cleared his throat, trying to shake the filthy, mental images running through his old mind for a girl who’s more than half his age.

“I’m glad you think so.”

He began walking you toward the side of the house, leading you to a sprawling, well-tended garden and a series of larger fields beyond. “Over here is where we grow most of our own. Corn, beans, squash... and I’ve got a patch of tomatoes that’ll be the best thing you ever tasted once they’re ripe.”

You’d always thought the farmers' markets in the city square were the closest you’d get to whole foods, but this was entirely different.

Steve reached down, casually plucking a stray weed from the edge of a row with a grunt. “Bucky’s the muscle when it comes to the heavy tillin’, but I’m the one with the green thumb. I’m a damn good cook, too, if I do say so myself.”

He stood up, dusting his hands off on his dirty denim jeans as he gave you a playful, confident look. “I’ll have to whip somethin’ up for you one of these nights you’re here. Show you what real farm-to-table food actually tastes like.”

You looked at the vastness of the crops, realizing just how much work these two put in with their own very large hands. “You really do everything yourselves, don’t you?”

“That’s the only right way to do it, baby,” Steve drawled, planting his hands on his hips as his smirk deepened.

Baby.

The word rolled off his tongue—low, honeyed, and thick with a southern accent that made your heart skip a beat. You felt the heat climb into your cheeks, and you quickly looked down at your shoes, suddenly feeling too shy to maintain his gaze.

A little, raspy chuckle escaped his lips. He knew exactly what he was doing.

“Let me show you the horses,” Steve said, nodding toward the stables and gesturing for you to follow. “Don’t wanna keep ‘em waitin’ now.”

He led you toward the stables, where the heavy, earthy scent of hay and horsehide hit you all at once. It was a thick, unfamiliar smell, and you couldn’t help but scrunch your nose.

Steve noticed, glancing over his shoulder with an amused chuckle. “Not exactly the perfume you’re used to, is it?” He gestured toward the wide, shadowed stalls. “This is where we keep our beauties—”

Steve stopped in his tracks as he realized you guys weren’t alone.

Bucky was deep in the shadows of the furthest stall. His hat was tipped back, and his sleeves were rolled past his elbows to reveal beefy, corded forearms as he brushed down a massive, coal-black mare. The horse huffed, leaning into his touch, and for a split second, you saw a flicker of softness in Bucky’s eyes.

It was clearly a side he didn’t want you to see, because as soon as he heard your footsteps, his head snapped to you with a cold glare.

His jaw tightened, and his movements with the brush grew sharper, almost more aggressive.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Bucky grumbled, his eyes returning to the horse.

You bit your lip, choosing your words carefully to not upset him further. “Uncle Steve just wanted to show me around—I didn’t mean to bother you, Uncle Bucky.”

“Don’t call us uncle, kid,” Bucky snapped, still refusing to look at you. “We haven’t seen you since you were in diapers. We ain’t family.”

You flinched slightly at his cold words.

“Buck,” Steve warned, his voice dropping as he rested a protective hand on your shoulder.

Bucky finally looked at you. His eyes landed on Steve’s hand before snapping back to your face. He clicked his tongue dismissively and went back to tending his horse.

A slow, tired exhale escaped Steve behind you. With his hand still on you, he gently nudged you to the next stall, where a horse with a beautiful chestnut mane and the softest brown eyes was watching you curiously.

“This right here is my horse,” Steve said. His voice was much softer now, a far difference to the tone he’d used with Bucky just seconds ago.

You finally let out the breath you’d been holding since Bucky told you off. A small, shy smile tugged at your lips as the horse huffed a warm greeting against your palm. “She’s beautiful.”

“Her name’s Peggy.”

A loud, unmistakable scoff echoed from the far end of the barn where Bucky stood. He didn’t say a word, but the sound was enough to let you know there was a history with that name you didn’t quite understand yet.

Steve ignored Bucky’s attitude entirely, his focus remaining solely on you. Peggy, sensing your gentle energy, let out a soft whuff and began nuzzling her velvet nose against your palm, rubbing her head into your hand with an affectionate push.

You let out a startled, breathless giggle. Back home, you were used to lap dogs and small cats—not a thousand pound animal demanding your attention. You weren’t used to something so large being so friendly, and you instinctively pulled your hand away, stumbling back half a step when the sensation became overwhelming.

“Be a good girl now, Peg,” Steve murmured to the horse, though his eyes never left you. “You’re scarin’ the misses.”

Before you could fully retreat, Steve’s large, rough hand moved from your shoulder to your waist. His grip was firm and steadying, pinning you right where you were between the stall and his body. He stepped closer until his chest was a solid, warm wall against your back.

He leaned down over your shoulder, his face so close you could feel his heat. You swallowed hard as his voice came out raspy and hot, vibrating right against your ear.

“Wouldya look at that? She loves you.”

The heat from Steve’s chest was seeping through your clothes, and your gaze dropped to his hands. They were huge, his tanned, calloused fingers practically wrapping halfway around your waist, holding you in place almost possessively.

You felt like you were on fire. Being pinned between a massive horse and an even more massive man had your heart running circles in your chest.

But then, your eyes drifted just past Steve’s shoulder.

At the far end of the stable, the shadows couldn’t hide Bucky, no matter how hard he tried to tuck himself away.

His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle bulged in his cheek, and his knuckles were white where he gripped the handle of the brush. He looked beyond grumpy—he looked almost livid. His dark eyes were hidden beneath the brim of his hat, but you could still feel them boring into the exact spot where Steve’s hand met your hip.

“Can I… can I meet your horse too, Bucky?” you asked, your voice coming out soft and breathy.

The silence that followed was deafening. You nearly regretted the question the moment it left your mouth. Steve went still, hovering just behind you as he, too, waited for Bucky’s response.

Eventually, Bucky huffed out a harsh, dry laugh. “My horse don’t like strangers,” he murmured. “’specially ones that smell like expensive city soap. It’ll just aggravate her.”

“I’m sure she’s not that picky,” you said, forcing a small smile in an attempt to crack his shell.

Despite the safety of Steve’s hand and chest, you took a breath as you gently ducked out of the way. You could feel Steve’s eyes on you as you took a step toward the far end of the stall.

Bucky didn’t push you away, which was a surprise in itself. Instead, he just mumbled, “If she bites, I’m not suckin’ on your finger.”

You didn’t doubt him for a second.

As you drew closer, the massive black mare—the one Bucky claimed was so ‘aggravated’ by city folk—perked her ears up. She didn’t huff or stomp. She stretched her long neck over the gate, her nostrils flared as she caught the scent of you. Before Bucky could tell you to leave, the mare let out a low, vibrating nuzzle against your shoulder.

“Oh!” a small, genuine laugh of disbelief escaped you. “She likes my soap, apparently!”

Bucky stood still, his eyes widening as he watched his beloved horse befriend a stranger in a matter of seconds. He folded his arms over his chest, watching your delicate fingers work through the mare’s dark mane.

He watched the way your small smile lit up your face, the pure joy that took over once you’d won the animal’s affection. His heart swelled, though he couldn’t tell if it was because of how soft and innocent you looked or because his horse was being such a good girl by opening up so easily.

For the sake of his blood pressure, he chose the latter.

But then, the mare got a little too excited. Eager for more attention, she tossed her heavy head and snapped her teeth toward your fingers, catching you off guard.

As you gasped, Bucky’s hand shot out. His fingers—rough and surprisingly warm—grabbed around your wrist, pulling your hand back toward his chest and out of harm’s way.

“Easy, girl,” he cooed.

If someone were to touch your face right now, they would’ve pulled back from the heat alone.

His voice wasn’t the usual grumpy mumble he used to tell you off. It was a low, almost melodic vibration. And although he wasn’t speaking to you, your heart thrummed just the same. His thumb brushed against the pulse point of your wrist, and he could surely feel how fast your heart was moving because of him.

“She’s got a bit of a temper when she’s happy,” Bucky explained, finally dropping your hand.

You frowned slightly, feeling a pang of disappointment at the loss of contact. To Bucky, however, it looked like you were just shaken from nearly losing a finger.

“What’s her name?” you asked softly.

Bucky swallowed hard, reaching out to pet the mare’s nose. “Rebecca. Named after my late sister.”

“Oh,” you breathed, your shoulders deflating slightly at the news. “I’m so sorry, Bucky. It’s a beautiful name.”

Bucky didn’t look at you. He just kept his hand on Rebecca’s nose, his thumb tracing a slow circle over her skin.

“Do you guys have family that live nearby?” you pried gently, glancing between him and Steve, who was stepping up beside you. “Or is it just the two of you out here?”

“Just us now,” Steve said, his voice gentle. “Our folks passed on a good while back, but they were the ones who started all this.”

He gestured to the sturdy beams of the barn and the fields beyond. “Our parents were best friends, just like us. Raised us side-by-side on this very dirt. Sarah and Winnie—those were our mothers.”

A small, almost shy smile touched Steve’s lips as he looked at the garden rows outside the stable door. “My ma, Sarah, she was the one with the green thumb. Always takin’ care of the crops, talkin’ to the tomatoes like they were her own kin. Pretty sure I got my patience from her.”

He then nudged his head towards Bucky.

“And Buck’s mom, Winnie?” he whistled, making Bucky shake his head with a deep chuckle. “She was a horse girl through and through. Could break a wild stallion before she even had her morning coffee. She’s the one who taught us how to ride—and how to listen to ‘em. Ain’t that right, Bucky?”

Bucky looked down at his boots, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his eyes, but you still managed to catch a glimpse of that real smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah. She was a hardass, that’s for sure,” Bucky nodded, his voice surprisingly soft. “Was hard on your dad, too.”

You smiled at the thought. The few times they had brought up your father today, it was always a petty remark.

“Were you and my dad close?” you asked gently.

Steve watched Bucky, his expression unreadable, as if waiting for his friend to take the lead on the answer. When Bucky remained quiet, his thumb still tracing circles on the mare’s nose, Steve finally spoke up.

“We were very good friends,” he explained with a kind, steady smile.

Before you could dwell on their tension or press for more, Steve clapped his hands together. The sharp sound made you jump and caused Bucky to snap his head up.

“Well, how ‘bout it?” Steve asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt loops. “Sun’s gonna be setting in a bit, and there ain’t no better way to see the back acres. You wanna go for a ride?”

Your eyes widened. “I—I don’t really know how to ride,” you admitted, a bit embarrassed. “I’ve only ever seen horses in movies or… through a fence.”

Steve’s smile widened as he stepped closer, resting a hand on the small of your back and gently guiding you toward his horse. “Don’t you worry none, buttercup. We won’t let you fall.”

The sun was starting to set, and Steve and Bucky led the horses out of the dim stable and into the open air. The wide expanse of the ranch felt even more intimidating now that you were expected to traverse it on the back of a living, breathing animal.

Steve checked the cinch on Peggy’s saddle, tugging it tight to ensure it wouldn’t slip. He swung himself up and settled, looking like he’d been born in the saddle itself. He looked down at you, holding the reins loosely in one hand while offering the other.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he encouraged, his voice deep and sweet. “Left foot in the stirrup. Don’t be shy now.”

You looked at the height of the horse, then at Steve, feeling hesitant. You took a step back, shaking your head. “I… I don’t know about this, Steve. Maybe I should just walk—”

Before you could finish, Bucky appeared behind you. He didn’t give you a warning, he simply pressed up against your back and gripped his hands around your waist tightly. You gasped as he hoisted you into the air effortlessly, lifting you upward until were seatled firmly on Peggy’s back in front of Steve.

Steve’s hands found your waist as you wobbled, steadying you in place.

Bucky stepped back, adjusting the brim of his hat. “You don’t decline a ride out here,” he lectured, his voice gruff. “It’s rude.”

He turned on his heel and walked back to his own horse, leaving you slightly embarassed after being humbled by Bucky yet again.

“He’s got a point,” Steve chuckled warmly from behind you. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his frame as he took the reins in his hands. “And besides, I’ve got a real firm hold on you. You’re not goin’ anywhere.”

With a sharp click of his tongue, Bucky urged Rebecca into a brisk trot, quickly pulling ahead and taking the lead. You watched him go, the silhouette of his broad shoulders dipped in the gold of the setting sun, making him look like he’d stepped straight out of a cinematic painting.

In contrast, your ride with Steve was gentle and slow, but you prefered it that way.

“You’re doin’ just fine,” Steve murmured behind you. He noticed the way you were white knuckling the saddle horn and reached around you. “Here. Take the reins.”

“I don’t know if this is a good idea,” you admitted, but Steve was already sliding his large hands over yours, guiding your fingers to grip the leather straps.

He kept his hands over yours, warm and firmly in control. “I’ve got you.”

You watched Bucky and his horse tread on, his pace never slowing. You bit your lip, the silence and the distance between you and him finally giving you the courage to ask the question that had been weighing on your mind since you arrived.

“He doesn’t like me much, does he?” you asked softly.

Steve’s hands tightened just slightly over yours, a small sigh escaping him.

“It ain’t that…” he trailed off. “Buck’s just… he’s really big on loyalty. Friendship, family—all that kind of stuff.”

Steve watched his friend ride into the distance, his eyes filled with earnestness.

“When your dad had you, Buck was so damn happy. Your dad was the first guy out of the group to do the whole marriage-and-kid thing. Buck thought, ‘A kid of yours is a kid of mine.’ He was excited to be a godfather, or an uncle. We were just excited to be in your life, you know?”

You stayed silent, prompting him to continue.

“So, when your ma wanted to pack her things and move you all somewhere ‘better’—Bucky was livid. He told your dad, ‘How are you gonna let a girl dictate how you live your life?’ and your dad just said, ‘When you fall in love with a woman, you’d do anything for her. You just don’t get it.’”

Steve swallowed hard as he went on.

“And since you all left for the city, we never heard back from him. So you can imagine how it felt for Buck to get a letter from your daddy out of nowhere, askin’ for his daughter to stay with us after all these years.”

You bit your lower lip, the broken raspiness in Steve’s voice making the guilt eat at your heart even faster. You knew Bucky’s resentment was technically unfair—a result of your father’s silence rather than anything you had done—but you couldn’t help the sympathy you felt for the years of friendship they had lost.

“I’m sorry things didn’t turn out the way you both wanted them to,” you whispered.

“Don’t apologize, darlin’,” Steve reassured you. He momentarily shifted his grip, one hand coming up to ruffle your hair in a playful, teasing gesture that made you lean back into him. “Sometimes you just gotta see the glass as half-full. I’m just glad your dad still chose us to take care of you after all these years. To me, that’s better than nothin’.”

He squeezed your hand where it rested on the reins, his thumb brushing over your knuckles.

“And my,” he rumbled, his voice vibrating through your spine, “what a fine woman you’ve grown up to be.”

Your face went hot, the heat of it rivaling the setting sun that touched your skin. The way he said it—with a dark, sultry appreciation that wasn’t at all familial—sent excitement from your heart straight to your core.

Instinctively, you shifted in the saddle, trying to find your breath, but the movement only caused you to lean back further. Your hips moved against the hard, muscular denim of his thighs, and you felt the hitch in his breathing the moment you rubbed against him.

Steve didn’t pull anyway—if anything, one hand found your waist, giving it a possessive squeeze.

“Don’t rub up against me like that, baby,” he rasped against your ear, his hat shielding the dark, hungry look in his eyes. “You’re gonna get me in trouble.”

Meanwhile, Bucky spurred Rebecca into a trot, circling back until he was riding parallel to Peggy. His eyes didn’t stray to you, but he was clearly aware of how closely you were tucked into Steve’s lap.

“Steve,” Bucky called out, deliberately ignoring your presence. “We hittin’ the Country Club tonight?”

The Country Club wasn’t the kind of place with golf courses and polo shirts. It was the heart of the town—a sprawling, wood planked hall where the ber was cold, the line dancing was fast and slobby, and the mechnical bull was the only thing meaner than a hungry coyote.

It was loud, rowdy, and exactly where every cowboy in the county ended up on a Saturday night.

Steve leaned back a little away from you. “Yeah, I reckon we are.” He looked down at you, eyes twinkling. “How ‘bout it, sweetheart? You wanna tag along? We’ll show you more of the countryside your dad wanted you to see.”

You felt Bucky’s gaze then.

It was practically screaming for you to say no.

“Oh, I don’t want to intrude,” you said, forcing a polite chuckle. “I’ll just stay home and get settled in. I’m sure you guys want some time with your friends.”

Bucky let out a short, huffed breath of what might have been relief, but Steve wasn’t having it.

“There ain’t much to do at home but listen to the chickens, darlin’,” Steve insisted. “Come with us. It’ll be fun. You can watch good ol’ Buck here get thrown off the bull for the third time this month.”

“I don’t get thrown off,” Bucky mumbled, folding his arms over his chest as he glared at the horizon.

“Come on,” Steve urged. “And if you aren’t havin’ a good time, or if it gets too loud for ya, just say the word. We’ll leave right then and there. Promise.”

You stayed silent, still hesitant as your eyes flickered between the two of them. Bucky technically wasn’t saying no, yet he still avoided looking at you. Steve, on the other hand, was a presence you couldn’t ignore.

“You know, your daddy loved the place.” Steve added, coaxing you in.

You smiled softly, already picturing your father getting giddy and rowdy with these two men in their younger days. You glanced at Bucky warily, seeking some kind of confirmation. “Is that true?”

Bucky didn’t look up. “Never missed a night.”

“Okay,” you breathed, a small smile finally tugging at your lips. “I’ll go.”

The tension in Steve’s shoulders dropped instantly at your agreement.

“Great. Let’s head home and freshen up, and then we’ll be right on out.” He took control of the reins, spinning Peggy around toward the house. “You’re gonna have a lot of fun, sweetheart. I promise.”

By the time you arrived back at the house, the evening air had turned crisp, and the sun had long since dipped beneath the silhouette of the mountains. You retreated to Bucky’s room—the space he had begrudgingly vacated for you—and closed the door behind you.

You began to strip out of your travel-worn clothes, shivering slightly as the cool air hit your skin. You were down to your undegarments—simple, soft white cotton that felt wholesome and modest, yet left you feeling incredibly vulnerable in the middle of this… very masculine sanctuary.

As you reached for your fresh clothes in your suitcase, your eyes caught on one of Bucky’s hats sitting atop of the dark wood dresser. It was worn at the edges, shaped perfectly to the curve of his head.

On a very curious whim, you picked it up and placed it on your own head. It was far too big, the brim dropping over your eyes, but you couldn’t help but glance at yourself in the mirror.

There was something about the rugged piece of him covering your hair that made you smile.

Here you were, in a grown man’s bedroom, wearing nothing but his cowboy hat and white cotton undergarments, grinning at your reflection. You felt like a little girl playing pretend. You practiced adjusting the brim, trying to mimic the way Steve and Bucky did it, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at how ridiculous it all felt.

Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open, the sharp creak of the hinges making your head snap to the sound.

Bucky stepped inside, his head down as he fumbled with the buttons of a half-done shirt, his mind clearly a million miles away.

“Steve, have you seen my brown jacket? I think I left it in the—”

As Bucky lifted his head, his breath got stuck in his throat. The air in the small bedroom vanished instantly, leaving a vacuum of pure, suffocating tension. You felt like you could choke.

There you were, bathed in the soft, amber glow of the bedside lamp. You were dressed only in soft white cotton, the little pink bow at the center of your underwear greeting him shamelessly. But what truly made Bucky’s throat go dry was the sight of the hat—his hat—perched on your head. The brim was tilted at that same playful angle you’d been practicing, casting a shadow over your wide, startled eyes.

“I…” you started, face flushing in embarassment. “I didn’t—”

You braced yourself. You expected him to yell, to tell you to take his precious hat off your head and stay home for the rest of the night. You were, after all, standing in his bedroom, stripped down and wearing his most personal possession.

“I came for my jacket,” Bucky croaked instead, his voice sounding like it had been dragged over broken glass.

He took a step past the doorframe, ostensibly to find his coat, yet his eyes were traitors. They kept snapping back to your face, to the hat, to the curves of your body, and back to the hat again. He swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing sharply.

“You look…” he stopped himself, his chest rising and falling in a heavy breath as he struggled to find his composure. “You’re wearin’ my hat.”

Mortified, you felt the heat climb from your chest all the way to the tips of your ears. You ripped the hat off your head—leaving your hair a bit fuzzled and messed up—and clutched the stiff felt against your chest in a desperate attempt to shield your body.

“I just…” you stammered, small and breathless. “I saw it sitting there on the dresser and I got a bit curious, I guess. I didn’t mean to—”

You squeezed your eyes, waiting for his sharp tongue to lecture you on boundaries, but instead, you heard his boots move closer to you. His large hands reached out, gently prying the hat from your grip. You held your breath as he lifted it, but he didn’t set it back on the dresser.

With a slow, careful motion, he propped it back onto your head—his fingers lingered at the brim, adjusting it just so, tilting it until the shadow of it played across your flustered cheeks.

“No,” he murmured, his voice low and deep, making your bare toes curl against the floor. “Wear it tonight.”

Bucky stepped back, though he was still far too close for you to think straight. He licked his bottom lip, the moisture glistening, before he caught the skin between his teeth, biting down. His eyes were dark, hooded, and heavy as they trailed a slow, scorched path down to your face, then dropped to the curve of your body, before snapping back up to lock onto your gaze.

“It looks much better on you than it ever did on me, anyway,” he rasped.

You felt the words die in your throat. You could only stare back at him, wide-eyed, because that was the first genuinely kind thing he had said to you since you arrived.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you breathed.

Bucky didn’t say anything else. He pressed his lips together, giving you a curt nod before grabbing his brown jacket from the chair near the door.

“Meet us out front in ten,” he called out over his shoulder. His voice had returned to its usual gruffness as he walked out, though he shut the door much softer than he had opened it.

Ten minutes later, the cool night air hit your skin as you pushed through the screen door, but the atmosphere on the porch turned stiflingly hot the second you stepped out.

Steve and Bucky were leaning against the porch railing, deep in a quiet conversation that died the moment they saw you. Both of them straightened up immediately, their bodies rigid as if they’d been struck by lightning.

You stood there, a little self-conscious, wearing a dress that hugged your waist and flared at your hips. It was cute, feminine, and a stark contrast to the rugged, oversized cowboy hat resting on your head.

Steve’s breath left him in a sharp, audible hitch. With his blue eyes wide, he let them travel from the tips of your toes up the length of your bare legs, lingering far too long on the way the dress fit before landing on the hat. A slow, crooked grin spread across his face.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve exhaled. “You’re gonna start a riot in that town, sweetheart.”

Bucky’s reaction, however, was worse. He didn’t even give you the courtesy of a smile. He just stood there, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes dangerously dark.

Every time Bucky looked at you, he saw his old friend’s face—the man who had trusted him to watch over his daughter—but every time his gaze dropped to the swell of your breast or the curve of your shining lips, that trust felt like a fraying rope.

He looked at the hat on your head, and to Bucky, that hat meant he had already made his claim on you.

Long before Steve ever could.

“We should go,” Bucky strained, his voice sounding like he was physically fighting the urge to say something he shouldn’t.

“Before it gets any darker.”

By the time the neon sign for the Country Club flickered into view, the parking lot was already a sea of mud caked duallys and vintage pickups.

As you stepped out of the truck and Steve held the door for you, your ears rang with the muffled thrum of music. The entire building seemed to vibrate with the stomp and clacking of leather boots on hardwood, punctuated by the roar of a crowd cheering on someone at the mechanical bull.

Nervous, you tuck between the two men for comfort.

Steve noticed your hesitation. He placed a steadying hand on your lower back, his thumb tracing a slow circle over the fabric of your dress.

“Stay close, darlin’. It’s a bit rowdy tonight.”

They led you through the swinging double doors and straight to the long, scarred bar. The bartender—a man who looked like he’d seen a century’s worth of bar fights—gave Steve and Bucky a nod before sliding three coasters onto the wood.

“Andy,” Bucky greeted, his voice barely audible over the fiddle music.

“If it isn’t Cap and Winter,” the bartender, Andy, said, already turning around to grab a well-worn bottle of whiskey. He cut a sharp look toward you.

“And who’s the little lady?

“This here is Crazy Clyde’s daughter,” Steve said, pulling out a barstool and gesturing for you to take a seat. “She’s visitin’ town.”

You took a seat on the high stool, eyeing Bucky and Steve with a raised brow. “Crazy Clyde?”

“That was your dad’s nickname,” Bucky explained, already taking a slow, steady sip out of the amber whiskey Andy had poured him.

You couldn’t help it; a small chuckle bubbled up in your throat. The idea of your father—the man you knew as relatively composed—running around with a name like a low budget cartoon character was too much.

“How come he gets stuck with a corny nickname like that while you guys get to walk around with cool ones like ‘Cap’ and ‘Winter’?” you asked, tilting your head.

Steve let out a huff of a laugh, leaning his elbow on the bar so he could tilt his head closer to yours.

“Well, now, don’t go feelin' too bad for him, sweetheart,” Steve said, his blue eyes crinkling at the corners. “He earned that name fair and square. Your daddy had a habit of chasin’ down drinks and jumpin’ off barn roofs on a dare. He was a wild one—made us look like choir boys back in the day.”

Your smile widened, letting out a soft laugh at the thought. Steve’s eyes crinkled as he laughed along, and in the corner of your eye, you were fairly certain you saw Bucky’s lips curve into a faint smile as he watched the two of you.

“So, what can we get ya?” Steve shouted over the music. “They make a decent gin fizz if you want somethin’ light.”

You looked at the rows of whiskey bottles and the rough edged men around you. Bucky’s fingers were already nursing an amber glass, drinking it without any reaction, and although you knew you couldn’t do the same, you still wanted to try and fit in.

“I’ll just have whatever you guys are having,” you tried to sound more confident than you felt.

Steve’s eyebrows raised, amused. He looked at Bucky, who only snickered behind the rim of his glass.

“You sure about that, sweetheart?” Steve asked, his brows furrowing in concern. “That’s a lot of kick for someone who ain’t used to drinkin’.”

“Just get the damn girl what she wants, Steve,” Bucky grumbled.

He set his glass down, the heavy thud punctuating his words as he looked you up and down, his eyes lingering on the hat again.

“If she wants to bite off more than she can chew, let her.”

Steve gave Bucky a skeptical look, then turned his gaze back to you. Eventually, he sighed and signaled with his fingers for Andy to bring over another glass. Once the whiskey was nestled on your coaster, you lifted it, and the pungent, medicinal smell immediately made you scrunch your nose.

Bucky snickered, taking satisfaction in your hesitation.

Steve lifted his own glass, the rim of it hovering right against his lips. “Are you sure ‘bout this, sweetheart? You know, it’s never too late to order a fruity cocktail—”

But before he could even finish the sentence, you inhaled deeply, tilted your head back, and downed the entire glass in one go.

Steve’s jaw hung open while Bucky turned his head toward you, his eyes widening.

The drink was disgusting.

The burn hit your throat like liquid fire, making your eyes water, but the look on their faces made every bit of the sting worth it.

You slammed the glass down, the heavy thud punctuating the silence of their shock. For a second, your mind was dizzy and your eyes watered. The whiskey hit your stomach like a ball of hot lead, and you couldn’t help but gag, a hand flying to your mouth as you fought to keep your pride and the liquid down.

“Not… not too bad,” you choked out, eyes watering.

Steve blinked in disbelief before throwing his head back and slapping a hand on the bar with a laugh. “Jesus, baby!”

“Hell, if you wanted to shoot it back, you could’ve just ordered a shot,” Bucky remarked.

You shivered, your throat still feeling like you’d swallowed a hot coal.

“What do you mean?” you rasped, genuinely confused. “Isn’t that how you do it?”

Steve reached over, his fingers gently brushing your arm as he laughed. “Usually, with a pour that big, you’re supposed to sip it, sweetheart. Savor the flavor, or whatever the hell the distillers say.”

Your face felt hot from a mixture of embarrassment and the alcohol.

“… Oh.”

He shook his head, looking at the empty glass and then back at your flushed face. “But hey, looks like you got your daddy’s traits after all. Clyde never did have much patience for sippin’ either.”

Suddenly, the crowd exploded into a loud roar of hooting and hollering that made the floors shake. Across the room, a young cowboy had just been launched into the padded mats by a mechanical bull that looked… more like a prehistoric beast than a machine.

The adrenaline from the whiskey and the booming atmosphere was blooming fast in your chest, making you feel braver and a little more reckless than you had any right to be.

You looked at the bull, then back at the two men who were cheering along with the crowd.

“I want to try it,” you blurted out over the noise.

Steve’s laughter caught in his throat, and he looked down at you with wide eyes. “You want to ride on that?”

“What’s the matter, Cap?” you teased, encouraged by the alcohol. “Don’t think I've got enough of my dad’s traits in me?”

You glanced at Bucky, but he hadn’t said a word. His eyes trailed from your face down to the hem of your dress, his expression slightly judgmental. He looked as though he were a father himself, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“It’s a long way down,” Bucky warned, his voice bordering on condescending. “And your dress is hardly fit for a machine like that. You tryna’ flash the entire bar, city girl?”

You weren’t fond of the way Bucky was talking down to you, treating you like a child who didn't know any better. If gulping down a glass of whiskey neat wasn’t enough to prove you were capable, then riding that bull would have to do it.

“I’m going,” you declared, sliding off the barstool.

You felt a little lightheaded as your feet hit the floor, but you straightened your shoulders and adjusted Bucky’s hat, pulling the brim down low over your eyes exactly the way he did. In the ruckus of the club, you didn’t hear the soft, reluctant chuckle that escaped Bucky’s lips at the sight of you mimicking him.

Steve’s hand shot out, catching your wrist before you could take another step.

“Listen, it’s not going to be like how it is in the movies, sweetheart. It’s hard—you’ve gotta use your core, and if you don’t grip it right, you’re gonna go flyin’,” he warned.

You gently pried your hand away, giving him a playful, tipsy nudge in the shoulder. “I’ve got it, Steve!”

You turned to head toward the pit, though you wobbled slightly as the whiskey did a little dance in your head. You caught your balance quickly as you approached the announcer—a guy in a dark Stetson who was holding a megaphone. You leaned in, shouting over the music that you were a family friend of Steve and Bucky’s and that you wanted a turn.

“Well, alright now!” his voice boomed through the rafters. “Looks like we got a brave one tonight! This here is Steve and Bucky’s girl! Let’s see if she’s got the grit to match ‘em!”

The crowd erupted, and you felt several pairs of eyes on you. Men whistled and women cheered, and you felt like your heart could explode in your chest from the rush.

At the bar, Bucky’s face went a deep shade of crimson that he tried to hide beneath his hat.

Steve, however, didn’t look embarrassed at all. He caught your eye and gave you a little nod, his chest puffed out like he was more than happy to claim you in front of the whole county.

The operator gave you a hand up, and you swung your leg over the leather saddle. Bucky was right—the dress was an issue. It bunched up high on your thighs, but with the adrenaline and whiskey singing in your veins, you didn’t care.

The bull started with slow rolls, and you shifted your hips, digging your knees in. As the machine began to pick up speed, spinning and bucking in sharp gallops, you held on tighter and engaged your core just like Steve told you.

Steve leaned back against the table next to Bucky, letting out a low whistle.

“Wow,” he breathed. “Look at her, Buck. She looks…” Steve’s eyes trailed from the tilt of your head down to your bare legs, clenched tight around the machine, “… delicious.”

Bucky scoffed, but he wasn’t even looking at you anymore; he was looking at the crowd. His eyes kept darting around the room, noting every low whistle and hungry gaze coming from the local cowboys. He saw the way the men were eyeing the curve of your legs and the way your dress hugged your chest as you held on for dear life.

“Stevie,” Bucky muttered. “I don’t like this.”

“What?” Steve shouted over the noise, leaning in closer to his friend.

Bucky looked around, his jaw locked tight. “I don’t like the way they’re lookin’ at her, Steve.”

He looked less like a proud family friend and more like a predator protecting his territory. The more the men around them whistled or ogled your legs, the more he wanted to walk over there and pull you off that machine himself. He hated the way they looked at you because he knew exactly what they were thinking—mostly because he was thinking the exact same thing.

“She’s doin’ a great job and she’s havin’ fun,” Steve countered. “Look at her, Buck. She’s smilin’ all cute. Just let her be.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver from the crowd, his knuckles nearly turning white as he gripped the edge of the bar.

“That’s the point,” he muttered under his breath, but the ruckus was too loud, and Steve didn’t hear him.

A group of younger guys moved in right next to them, not even trying to be quiet. They leaned against the railing of the bull pit, their eyes glued to the way your dress was riding up as the machine bucked and made you bounce.

“That’s Steve and Bucky’s girl?” one of them jeered, his eyes raking over you with a slow, dirty look. “You think they’re sharin’ her?”

“Hell no,” his friend laughed behind his beer bottle. “They’re way too damn old for a girl like that. Probably just their caretaker.”

“Ain’t that Crazy Clyde’s daughter, though? We haven’t seen that old man around town in a minute.”

“Sure is,” the first guy drawled drunkenly, his voice rising over the music. “Man… the things I’d do to Crazy Clyde’s little girl the minute she gets off that machine.”

Bucky’s head immediately snapped toward them, his face darkening as he sneered in their direction. It was one thing to insult him—that, Bucky could take. But insulting the people he cared about was enough to make him see red.

As he pushed himself off the bar top and clenched his fist, Steve’s hand shot out, grabbing Bucky’s forearm in a tight grip.

“Don’t,” Steve hissed. “Not when she’s here, Buck. Not tonight. She’ll look at us differently if we start a brawl over her.”

Bucky’s breath came in harsh, jagged hitches as he fought the urge to drive his fist into the guy’s face. “Did you not hear the shit he was talkin’, Steve?” he snarled. “He needs a sock in the mouth, and I’m gonna be the one to give it to him.”

As he tried to shove Steve’s hand away, Steve’s grip only tightened.

“What’s gotten into you? Look at her!” He gestured toward you on the bull. “She’s enjoyin’ herself. Just let her have her fun tonight. We’ll deal with these kids later.”

Bucky hesitated, looking back at you. He saw your pure, genuine smile and heard that warm laugh ring out over the music. He knew he’d been treating you like hell since you arrived, and he couldn’t bring himself to ruin the one good moment you were having.

A slow, impatient breath escaped Bucky’s lungs as he finally let his shoulders drop. “Fine.”

But their exchange hadn’t gone unnoticed. One of the guys glanced over, eyeing Bucky up and down, entirely unimpressed by the glowering man in the cowboy hat.

“What’s wrong, grandpa?” the guy sneered, emboldened by his friends’ laughter. “Don’t like the way I’m talkin’ ‘bout your niece?”

Another string holding Bucky’s patience together snapped.

“She ain’t my niece,” Bucky warned. He glared at the man from beneath the brim of his hat, his eyes sharp enough to cut.

The guy just took a slow swig of his beer, a greasy smirk stretching across his face, emboldened by the audience of his friends. “Well, you’re sure as hell too old to be anything else.”

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched.

He took a heavy step forward, the movement so sudden it nearly jerked his arm right out of Steve’s hold.

“The hell is that ‘sposed to mean?”

The guy shrugged, his eyes flicking back to you on the bull before returning to Bucky with a sneer. “It means a fine thing like that needs a man who can actually keep up. Not someone who’s probably lookin’ for his reading glasses and a heating pad. Why don’t you go back to the retirement home and let a real man show her a good time?”

Bucky didn’t wait for Steve’s permission, and he certainly didn’t wait for the guy to finish his laugh.

With a movement so fast, Bucky’s fist collided with the guy’s jaw. A sharp, meaty crack cut through the country music, leaving the man’s head snapping and his greasy smirk disappearing as his eyes rolled into the back of his head. He didn’t even have time to put his hands up to defend himself before he was lifted off his feet, crashing backward into the railing of the bull pit.

“Jesus, Buck!” Steve barked from behind.

The moment the first guy hit the floor, the bar turned into a powder keg. The two friends who had been laughing seconds ago looked at Bucky, their expressions turning furious as they lunged for him next.

Steve didn’t think.

He didn’t have to.

The minute he saw his best friend getting jumped, he clicked his tongue and rolled up his sleeves. He intercepted the second guy mid-swing, catching him by the collar and throwing him back against a table, leaving the people around him in shock.

“I told you to let it go!” Steve yelled over his shoulder at Bucky, even as he ducked a swinging bottle and delivered a punishing blow to another guy’s ribs.

To you, perched high on the spinning bull, the noise of the fight was easily mistaken for cheering. Between the flashing lights, the shouting, and the whistles, it sounded like the whole bar was rooting for you. The buzzer finally droned, and the bull slowly came to a halt. You were flushed and panting, a proud grin plastered on your face as you slid down the side of the machine and hopped onto the mats.

You tried to push through the dense wall of people to where Steve and Bucky should have been.

“Did you see that?!” you laughed, shaking your hair out of your face as you stepped out of the pit, your legs still a little wobbly. “Steve! Bucky! I stayed on the whole—”

As the crowd parted, the sight made your eyes go wide. Steve and Bucky were standing in a cleared out circle, surrounded by the bar’s security and several local guys who looked ready for another fight. Bucky looked rough—his lip was torn and bleeding, staining the edge of his jaw while his chest heaved in anger. Steve was right beside him, his breathing heavy and his knuckles bruised and bloodied.

You couldn’t hear much over the blaring music and the crowd, but the owner of the bar was pointing a finger toward the door, his face red with rage.

They were in the middle of getting kicked out.

“W-what happened?” you stammered, stepping toward them while carefully dodging broken glass and the several men groaning on the floor.

Steve’s expression softened as soon as he saw you. He stepped forward, putting a protective hand on your shoulder.

“It’s nothin’, sweet—”

“It’s time to go,” Bucky interrupted, his voice snapping.

He didn’t even look at you. He just bent over with a groan, picking his hat from the floor, and propped it low over his eyes as he walked to the exit without looking back.

The bouncer gave Steve a final shove toward the door. Steve sighed, his shoulders dropping as he carefully led you out with him.

“Let’s… let’s just get to the truck.”

As the three of you walked outside, the gravel crunched under Steve’s boots. He eventually let go of your back, walking next to you while Bucky stayed a good few feet ahead.

“I’m sorry,” Steve started, his voice thick with guilt as he kept his eyes on his friend’s back. “You shouldn’t have seen that. There was a couple of guys talkin’ ‘bout some things they shouldn’t have. He… we shouldn’t have let it get that far. It was stupid, and we should’ve handled it better.”

Bucky’s stride was long and aggressive. He reached the truck and grabbed the door handle, but he didn’t open it. He just stood there for a second, his back shaking with each ragged breath as he listened to you and Steve.

“It’s okay,” you whispered with a frown. “I just don’t understand. What could they have possibly said for you guys to get into such a big fight like that—”

Bucky let go of the door handle and spun around so fast that gravel kicked up under his boots.

“This is all your fault,” he snapped, his blue eyes burning with a dark, concentrated anger as he looked at you—and only you.

You flinched back, eyes widening in surprise. “M-me?”

Steve’s hand was back on your shoulder instantly, tightening in a comforting way as if he had seen this outburst coming. “Buck, knock it off. She didn’t do anything.”

“The hell she didn’t!” Bucky shot back, gesturing wildly toward you—toward the dress, the bar.

He looked at you, his torn lip curling as he pointed a finger.

“You just had to go up there. You had to have everyone lookin’ at you, didn’t you? Shakin’ around on that thing like you don’t know exactly what men in a place like this are thinkin’ when they see you.”

“Bucky,” Steve tried to step in between you two. “Stop.”

But Bucky gave him a rough shove, causing Steve to stumble back as Bucky stepped even closer, nearly getting in your face. “We were just ‘sposed to have a few drinks, but you had to make a scene.”

“Make a scene?” you huffed a disbelieving laugh, your eyes flickering to Steve before landing back on Bucky. “Is this some sort of joke? All I did was ride the mechanical bull—!”

“No,” Bucky interrupted. “You want to know what a joke is? It’s your damn father sendin’ us a letter with zero communication after years, tellin’ us to take care of his little girl without even askin’ for our approval.”

He stepped closer, invading your space until you could smell the copper of the blood on his lip. But you didn’t back down. You stood your ground, feet planted in the gravel as you met his hostile gaze with your own, despite having to crane your neck just to look up at him.

“Is that what this is about?” you challenged, your voice trembling but firm. “You’re mad at a letter? So you’re taking it out on me?”

Bucky’s face scrunched into a snarl. “Your old man vanished without a proper goodbye, talkin’ ‘bout how we were gonna be the best uncles, just for him to cut us out of your life for years. And then you just... waltz in. No warning, no care in the world, taking up space in my house. Taking up my damn room and makin’ yourself our responsibility.”

His voice was shaking now, the resentment he’d been bottling up finally boiling over.

“And then I have to watch you,” he hissed, his eyes scanning every inch of your face with a dark, restless energy. “I have to watch Steve look at you like you’re the best thing that ever happened to this town. I have to sit at a bar and listen to every low life in there talkin’ ‘bout what they’d do to you, while you’re up there smilin’ and givin’ them exactly what they want to see.”

“So, a few guys talk dirty about me and you decide to get into a fight?” you scoffed, your chest nearly brushing against his jacket. “I can handle my own, Bucky. I’ve been taking care of myself long before I showed up on your doorstep. I don’t need you two defending me like I’m some helpless kid!”

Bucky’s jaw tightened so hard you heard the bone click. A dark, incredulous laugh bubbled up in his throat—a sound entirely devoid of humor.

“Handle your own?” he mocked.“You could’ve traveled anywhere else, yet you’re stuck here with us ‘cause your daddy told you to come. You need grown men tellin’ you what to do, sweetheart. You can’t handle a damn thing.”

Your anger was boiling over at this point, and you felt like you could cry. Steve stepped up next to Bucky as he clamped a hand on his shoulder, trying to pry him away from you. But Bucky didn’t even look at him—he just delivered a hard, two handed shove to Steve’s chest that sent him stumbling back.

“Bucky, enough—”

“You’ve been an asshole to me from the minute I arrived,” you said, your voice uncontrollably shaky as you fought to keep from sobbing. “And you’re upset because my dad didn’t keep in touch with you. I get that! I do! B-but none of that is my fault, Bucky! That shouldn’t be a valid reason to hate me!”

“You’re right, it’s not your fault,” he hissed. He leaned closer, and you could smell the whiskey.

“But it is your fault you’re here. If you were half as independent as you claim to be, you wouldn’t have come crawlin’ to two men you haven’t seen since you were in fuckin’ pigtails.”

He stood up straight, letting out a heavy, annoyed breath.

“We were doin’ just fine with just the two of us before you showed up and started makin’ us feel like we owed you somethin’.”

Your brows, which had been furrowed in anger, slowly softened as his words punched you right in the gut. Your shoulders deflated, and all the fight drained out of you, leaving only a cold, hollow ache.

He didn’t just want the guys at the bar to stay away.

He wanted you away.

Steve, standing just behind him, could only stare at his friend with wide, horrified eyes. There was clearly history there—some old wound Bucky was reopening—because there was no other reason to be this cruel. You realized then that you were just a nuisance to him. An immature girl with a silly dream of traveling the world who had simply chosen the wrong first stop. You were an interloper in their already established life.

Looking down and finally breaking eye contact, you reached up and lifted Bucky’s hat off your head. You shoved it hard against his chest, catching him off guard. Bucky stumbled back a step, his fingers instinctively curling around the brim, crumpling the felt beneath his hands as he caught it.

“You want me to go?” you whispered, your voice cracking painfully. “Fine. I’ll leave. I’ll get my things and I’ll be out of your house—and your life—by morning.”

Your eyes were blurry as you looked past Bucky’s shoulder, sniffling as you called out for Steve.

“Will you take me back?” you asked, the words barely a breath. “I need to… I need to repack.”

Steve swallowed hard, the guilt on his face agonizing to look at. “Of course,” he nodded, his voice softening instantly. “Come on, sweetheart. I’ll take you home.”

He walked around the truck, and you didn’t give Bucky even one last glance as you stepped around him. Steve held the passenger door open, helping you in with a steady hand. Once he made sure you were settled, he walked back around the front of the truck, stopping in front of Bucky with a look of cold disappointment.

“You need to fuckin’ calm down, man,” Steve whisper yelled. He gestured angrily toward the truck—toward you. “Find your own ride home, ‘cause this—all of this—is unacceptable.”

Bucky didn’t lift his head. He didn’t even try fighting back. He just stood there, staring down at the scuffed leather of his boots, his hat shielding his broken eyes as the realization of what he’d just done—of what he just said, finally began to settle in the cold, dusty air.

As the truck started and you and Steve drove off, you glanced at Bucky one last time through the side mirror. You saw him standing there in the red glow of the taillights, staring down at the hat in his hands—the one you’d just shoved back at him.

He looked at it longingly before shouting outloud to himself—angry and broken.

“Fuck!”

The entire ride back to their house was suffocatingly silent. It was clear that there were a lot of things Steve wanted to say to you, but the words wouldn’t find him.

When you finally made it back, you crossed the front door with Steve trailing cautiously behind you. Steve let out a long, tired sigh, shutting the door softly as you immediately started toward Bucky’s room to gather your things.

“You’re not actually goin’ to leave us, are you?”

You frowned, though Steve couldn’t see it with your back turned to him. “He hates me, Steve. I’m…” your voice shook as you stared down the hallway. “There’s no space for me here. I shouldn’t have turned up on your doorstep with no warning. He was right—I shouldn’t have come.”

You continued down the hall and into Bucky’s room while Steve followed at a respectful distance. You knelt in the middle of the room as you began shoving your clothes back into your suitcase.

Steve let out a low groan as he knelt down next to you. He reached out, running a hand up and down your back in a slow, soothing motion, trying to comfort you.

“Honey, he… he didn’t mean any of that,” he said. He swallowed hard, realizing how ridiculous that might’ve sounded to you. “Buck’s a guy that’s rough around the edges. Always has been. When he lashes out like that, it just means he cares. He doesn’t know how to handle feelin’ like this.”

“He cares?” you let out a small, incredulous laugh that felt more like a sob. “He doesn’t care about me, Steve. The only thing he cares about is me being out of his hair.”

You picked up another piece of clothing, your shoulders slumping as your eyes began to fill with hot, frustrated tears. You kept your head down, chin tucked toward your chest. You refused to let Steve see you like this before he started thinking you were just a helpless kid, too. Just like Bucky said.

You stood up and reached for a shirt left on the bed, a broken sniffle escaping you as you tried to fold the fabric with trembling hands.

Steve’s heart felt weak in his chest at the sound. He got up, stepping behind you and resting a steady hand on your back. He leaned down, trying to meet your eyes and gently pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face.

When he finally saw a tear roll down your cheek, he looked absolutely destroyed.

“Oh, baby. No, no... come here,” he murmured softly. He wrapped two strong arms around you, pulling you firmly into his chest.

You couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Being in the comfort of something so warm after being faced with such coldness was enough to send the tears flowing freely. Your arms came up weakly to hug him back, your face buried against his shirt as you cried.

“He’s got a heart like a bruised fist,” Steve whispered into your hair, his chest rumbling against your ear. “And he doesn’t know how to open it without hurting someone. But you aren’t a nuisance, and you sure as hell aren’t helpless. I’m gonna have a talk with him, and you’re gonna stay here and enjoy the rest of your trip—with us.”

You sniffled, clutching the front of his shirt. “I can’t stay where I’m not wanted, Steve.”

Steve slowly guided you down onto the edge of the bed without letting go.

“Sit with me, sweetheart. Just for a minute,” he urged gently, his voice low and steady.

You sank onto the quilt, the fabric bunching under you as Steve sat right beside you. He pulled you back into the crook of his arm, tucking you in so your head rested on his shoulder. He took one of your hands in his, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing motion to stop your shaking.

“I need you to listen to me for a second. Can you do that?”

You nodded against his chest as his fingers began to trace your back tenderly.

“I want you here, and believe me, Bucky does too. Hell, does he want you here.” He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest as he tried to lighten the mood. “Earlier today, when he caught you wearin’ his hat... he would not stop talkin’ ‘bout it. Said you looked better in it than he ever did.”

You lifted your head slightly, wiping your nose with the back of your hand as you looked up at him. “Really?”

“Really,” Steve promised, a small smile playing on his lips. “Called you pretty and all that, but don’t tell him I said it.”

Steve’s expression softened even further, his gaze turning intense as he looked down at you. He reached up, his large hand cupping your cheek as he used his thumb to brush the last of the dampness from your skin. He pushed a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch warm against your skin as his finger trailed down, tracing over the curve of your bottom lip.

“And he’s right,” Steve murmured deeply, making your body shiver. “Who wouldn’t go a little insane over a girl as beautiful as you?”

Your face felt warm, and you couldn’t tell if it was the remnant of your tears or from the intense way Steve was staring at you.

“Steve…” you whispered, your breath hitching as you felt his thumb graze your lips again.

Steve sucked in a sharp breath, relishing the way his name sounded on your tongue. “You know, your dad told us to take good care of you when you arrived. And now, here you are, cryin’ in Bucky’s bed and packin’ your bags.” He muttered, leaning in until his hot breath ghosted over your face. “We’re not doin’ a very good job now, are we?”

Steve applied pressure to your bottom lip, dragging it down to reveal the wet flesh. “I think I’d like to do a much better job,” he whispered, his eyes dropping to your mouth and staying there. “Starting now.”

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, your tears shimmering like glass against the warm glow of the lamp. Steve let out a low, pained groan at the sight of you—so vulnerable, and yet so devastatingly inviting.

“God… you really are so beautiful,” he rasped.

With his gaze fixed on your mouth, he pushed his thumb past the seal of your lips, his finger pressing firmly against your tongue. It was unexpected—it was wrong for a ‘family friend’ to be doing this—but you couldn’t help your eyes fluttering shut instinctively. Without thinking, you sucked on his thumb, the heat of your mouth swirling around his skin.

Steve’s entire body went rigid. You were so accepting of him, so eager for the comfort he was offering, and he should’ve expected it—because you were a good girl, after all.

“Christ, baby,” he breathed, his voice slightly cracking.

Steve watched with hooded eyes as your lips moved against him, the way your tongue flicked around his digit. If it felt this good with just a finger, he could only imagine the wreck you’d make of him with his cock buried in your mouth instead.

With your eyes still shut, you heard him let out a deep, jagged groan as he shifted his weight on the bed. Your eyes fluttered open, and your gaze fell directly onto the obvious bulge straining against his denim. It was heavy and prominent, twitching as it jumped for your attention.

You blinked up at him, your breath hitching as your eyes met his again.

The idea of arousing a man so much older than you—someone so wise and experienced in his years—gave you a thrill that should’ve sparked guilt. This was your father’s friend, a man meant to be your protector, but for some reason, the wrongness of it only made the heat in your stomach burn hotter.

Clenching your legs, your mouth continued to explore his thumb. Your hand came up against his thick forearm, holding him steady as you swirled your tongue, tasting the salt on his skin as you watched him watch you with hungry eyes.

Steve was trembling under your touch, his breath coming in shallow pants.

Then, his eyes lifted past yours, landing on something—someone at the doorframe.

“Bucky,” Steve panted.

Your eyes went wide. You immediately popped Steve’s thumb out of your mouth, a thread of saliva breaking from his finger as you whipped your head toward the door.

“Steve,” Bucky’s voice was deep, almost broken, as his eyes flickered from his best friend to you. “Sam gave me a ride home,” he explained, his voice low as he took a slow, predatory step toward the two of you on the bed.

In that moment, you wished you’d just packed and begged Steve to drive you straight to the airport. Bucky’s expression was dark and unreadable, his eyes shadowed beneath the brim of his hat—you couldn’t tell if he was about to explode or crumble.

You were expecting him to yell. You expected him to drag you by the arm, kick you out the front door, and hurl your luggage after you.

But he didn’t.

He just stood over you, the hat you’d borrowed gripped so tight in his hand that the felt was beginning to crush. You swallowed hard as you met his gaze. You should’ve been terrified, but you couldn’t deny the lingering arousal Steve had sparked in you.

Because right now, with the way Bucky was looking at you... it was almost like you wanted to be hurt by him.

“Bucky… I—”

Slowly, Bucky reached out. You flinched, expecting a rough shove, but his hand was surprisingly gentle as he hooked two fingers under your chin, forcing you to tilt your head back. He stared at your mouth, his eyes tracking the wet shine of saliva on your bottom lip.

“You tell me you’re packin’ your bags, and just when I think you’ll finally leave me alone, I come home and find you suckin’ on my best friend’s thumb like a baby?”

You glanced at Steve out of the corner of your eye, desperate for some sort of backup. But instead, you found Steve staring intensely at Bucky’s lap. Your eyes followed his, and a small gasp escaped at what you saw.

You didn’t know how long Bucky had been standing in that doorway watching you two, but the undeniable erection straining against his jeans told you he’d seen more than enough.

“Answer me,” Bucky hissed. He gave your cheeks a firm squeeze, the pressure forcing your lips to pout and making you look back up at him. “You want to stay so bad?” he whispered, leaning down until his nose brushed against yours. “You want to be taken care of by us, don’t you?”

After seeing the physical reaction Bucky had from watching you and Steve, and despite being pinned beneath him, you felt emboldened.

“… Do you want me to stay?” you whispered, refusing to break eye contact. “Do you want to take care of me, Bucky?”

Bucky’s expression went completely flat. He released your face and set your hat down on the quilt.

“Steve’s a gentleman,” Bucky said, gravelly and raspy. “He’ll give you a shoulder to cry on and tell you everythin’ is gonna be alright. But if you’re gonna stay in this house, under my roof, you’re gonna have to deal with me, too. And I don’t play as nice as he does.”

Steve’s hand slowly crept over your thigh, giving the soft skin a firm, possessive squeeze as he leaned in. His eyes cut up toward Bucky, challenging him.

“She thinks you don’t care ‘bout her, Buck,” Steve murmured, his voice low and raspy against your ear. “I think our girl here wants to see firsthand how much you do.”

Ours.

Bucky’s pupils flared at the word, his gaze dropping to where Steve’s fingers were digging into your skin and trailing up the hem of your skirt. He scoffed—a hard, bitter laugh that sounded more like a growl.

“Is that right?”

Steve’s hand bunched the fabric upward, his rough knuckles grazing your skin until the material pooled around your hips. He nudged your shoulders, urging you to lean back against the pillows until you were splayed open before them, revealing the thin cotton panties Bucky had caught a glimpse of earlier when he’d walked in on you changing.

Bucky’s breath hitched, his eyes locking onto the pale fabric. It was just as he remembered—except now, a dark, damp patch was blooming in the center, hinting your arousal.

“You know…” Steve began, his voice teasing as he looked up at Bucky’s tortured expression. “Bucky here was talkin’ reeaal dirty about you earlier, darlin’. You just didn’t know it.”

You shuddered, your eyes—half-lidded—glanced up at Bucky. You expected him to deny it, but all you saw was his slack jaw and the way his hand was mindlessly rubbing at the ache in his jeans.

“He told me how he wanted to pin those wrists of yours above your head,” Steve whispered, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips. “Said he wanted to see if you’d make those same sweet little sounds if he was buried deep inside you instead of just yellin’ at you and bein’ mean to you...”

You gasped softly, your face flaming.

It was as if Bucky couldn't even hear him— the blood was thumping so loud in his ears he could only focus on the sight of you. His knee hit the mattress, the bed dipping as he crawled between your legs, looming over the damp cotton of your panties.

“And that’s not even the best part,” Steve continued, his hand moving to the waistband of your panties, his thumb hooking just inside the elastic. “He told me he wanted to mark you so bad your daddy wouldn’t even recognize you. Wanted to leave his teeth marks all over these pretty thighs just so everyone knew exactly who you belonged to.”

Steve’s gaze shifted back to you, his eyes heavy and half-lidded. He leaned in closer, his thumb tugging slightly at the elastic of your panties, revealing your mound to Bucky’s gaze.

“But then you had to go on and get on that bull,” he muttered, his breath hot against your cheek. “Showin’ yourself off to everyone. That’s not a good girl now, is it?”

A little mewl left your lips, and Steve chuckled—amused by your lack of response.

Bucky let out a low groan. He couldn’t take the talking anymore. His hands went to his waist, fumbling the buckle of his belt as he undid it with trembling fingers. His eyes were glued at to the damp center of your cotton panties, just begging to be licked and touched by him.

“Remove her panties, Stevie,” Bucky ordered desperately.

Steve’s eyes darkened instantly. His thumb stilled at your panties, and he looked up at Bucky, his expression shifting from teasing to territorial.

“You’ve been on thin ice all night, Buck,” Steve countered, the raspy warning of his voice making you shiver. His thumb slowly trailed down against the cotton, rubbing at the damp spot against your clit. “You better ask me real nice if you want me to share.”

You held your breath, bracing yourself as you expected him to snap—to lunge at Steve or roar in frustration at being told what to do in his own house.

But instead, Bucky’s shoulders slumped, his lips curving into a pained, desperate frown. He ducked his head, finally pulling off his hat and dropping it blindly to the floor. His dark, messy hair fell over his eyes as he stared at your lap, his chest heaving.

It was a jarring sight—the man who had been yelling at you in the parking lot was now physically shaking with the need for Steve’s approval.

“Please,” Bucky choked out in pain.

Steve kept his thumb pressing firmly against the damp cotton over your clit, circling it slowly, making you gasp and arch your hips up into his hand.

“Please what, Buck?” Steve prompted calmly.

Bucky’s breath hitched, a broken sound leaving his throat as he finally looked up. His blue eyes, usually so gruff and distant, were glassy and pleading. He looked like a man starving, and you were the only meal in sight.

“Please, Stevie… let me see her,” Bucky begged in a desperate whimper. “Let me have her. I’m sorry. Just… please take ‘em off. I’ll be good.”

Steve hummed, the sound vibrating deep in his chest. He looked down at you, his thumb never ceasing that slow rub against your slit, making the damp cotton cling to your skin with every pass.

“What do you think, sweetheart?” Steve asked. “You want Bucky to make it up to you?”

You looked from Steve’s calm, commanding face to Bucky, who was still kneeling between your legs, trembling. His eyes were wide, glued on the movement of Steve’s thumb, his tongue darting out to lick his dry lips as he waited for your verdict.

The difference in how he’s acting was dizzying—Bucky, the man who had spent the day pushing you away with cold glares was now hanging on your every word.

But after how he’d treated you, you weren't ready to let him off the hook.

You almost felt bad for what you were going to say next.

“I don’t know, Stevie,” you taunted, using Bucky’s nickname for Steve against him. “I don’t think he deserves it.”

Bucky’s face went from pleading to almost murderous in a heartbeat. A low growl ripped from his throat as he lunged forward, his hand snapping out to grab the hem of your panties.

“What did you just say—”

Before he could even tug the fabric down, Steve’s hand shot out. His fingers wrapped around Bucky’s forearm, forcing him to halt.

“You heard the lady, Buck,” Steve warned, his voice turning cold and authoritative. “You don’t deserve it. Not yet.”

Bucky looked up, his chest heaving as he stared at Steve with wide, disbelieving eyes. “W-what?”

“I’m gonna have my turn with her,” Steve declared. He released Bucky's arm, his hand sliding instead to your waist to pull you flush against his chest, claiming you in front of him. “And you’re going to be good and watch.”

You didn't even have time to process Bucky’s shock before Steve’s rough hands were threading through your hair. He fisted the strands to tilt your head back, pulling you flush against his chest as his lips crashed onto yours. His tongue pushed past your teeth, deep and demanding, intertwining with yours as he drank you in like a man dying of thirst.

Your mind spun, caught in a dizzying haze of desire.

You had never been kissed with such need, much less by a man twice your age, whose experience and strength made you feel so small and claimed.

“Fuck,” you heard Bucky groan, the curse followed by the rattle of a belt being yanked through loops and the friction of denim being pushed down.

Steve ground his hips against your leg, the hardness making you ache for more. Your only coherent thought was the desperate wish that he’d follow suit—that he’d also strip out of those jeans and let you feel him properly.

Moaning softly against Steve’s lips, you couldn’t help but peek your eyes opening, flickering over to Bucky.

He was kneeling at the edge of the bed, his face grimaced into tortured longing. One hand was fisted tightly around his cock, stroking in a frantic, uneven rhythm, while his other fingers were clutching the bedsheets as he watched you being devoured by his best friend.

Bucky was being good—doing exactly as Steve had instructed. But the second Steve spread your legs wider, hooking his thumbs into the waistband of your panties and peeling them down to reveal your wet cunt, Bucky felt the last of his restraint snap.

He squeezed his dick hard, a mewl—or a whimper—escaped his throat.

“Steve, please,” he begged, the words ragged with pain as he stroked himself faster, his breath coming in short, shallow hitches. “I’m… I’m so hard. I can’t take it anymore.”

Steve ignored him. His lips never left yours as his own hands found his belt, the metallic of the buckle and the slide of the zipper echoing through the room, only making Bucky more agitated.

Desperate to hear more of Bucky crumbling apart for you, you trailed your hand up your side, cupping your own breast through the fabric of your dress and squeezing. You didn’t even need to open your eyes to know his reaction—you could hear the air being punched out of his lungs.

“Fuck, look at her—look at that little slut,” Bucky groaned, the mattress dipping and groaning as he scooted closer, unable to keep his distance a second longer. “She’s askin’ for it now. Steve, tell me she's askin’ for it.”

Steve sat up, the bed creaking under his weight as he freed himself from his jeans. He wrapped a thick hand around his cock, giving it a few heavy strokes that had your eyes widening.

He was big. And you weren’t sure how it was going to fit.

He leaned forward, the head of his cock probing against your entrance, smearing your own slickness back and forth over your sensitive folds. He was teasing you, pushing just a fraction of an inch inside before pulling back, over and over, until you were arching off the back in a desperate attempt for friction.

“Are you seein’ this, Buck?” Steve murmured, his eyes watching Bucky’s face, watching his best friend’s eyes trace over every wet, sliding movement of his cock against your skin. “Look at how she’s openin’ up for me.”

It was pure torture for Bucky, but it was agonizing for you, too. Your hands fisted the sheets as you tried to tilt your pelvis up to catch him, but Steve held you firmly in place with his free hand on your hip.

“Steve, please,” you whimpered, your voice breaking.

Steve let out a dark, amused chuckle, his gaze still locked on Bucky—whose hand was moving in a blurred frenzy against his own cock. “You hear that, Buck? She wants it so bad. She wants me to take care of her.”

Bucky let out a strangled sound. “I hear her, Stevie. God, I hear her. Let me… let me help. Please let me hold her while you fuck her.”

You tilted your head back, your hair spilling across the pillows as you looked up at Bucky. His eyes searched yours, looking for any sign that you would finally let him in after the way he’d treated you.

“Hold me, Bucky.”

Bucky sucked in a breath, his hand pausing at his cock as he glanced at Steve, waiting for the final word.

Steve gave him a sharp, single nod. “Come here, Buck,” Steve commanded, his voice thick and low. “Hold her while I fuck her.”

The mattress dipped violently as Bucky scrambled forward, crawling up the bed urgently. He didn’t just touch you—he cradled you, gently lifting your head onto his lap. His hands came up to frame your face, and you could feel his slick fingers from his pre-cum trail your face.

You stared up at him, breathless and upside down, as he loomed over you, breathing heavy at the sight of you desperate for them.

“Jesus,” Bucky breathed, his pupils so blown they’d nearly swallowed the blue of his irises. “So fuckin’ beautiful up close, too.”

Steve leaned forward, his large hands gripping your hips with bruising force as he finally guided himself in. Your mouth dropped into an o-shape as he pushed in slowly, his thick cock stretching you inch by inch. You let out a sharp wince, your back arching off Bucky’s lap as he forced your walls to accommodate him.

Bucky’s face scrunched into a pained expression—as if he were feeling every bit of the stretch you were.

“I know, baby doll—I know,” he whispered, his voice broken. “He’s so big, ain’t he?”

You nodded, eyes watering as you looked up at him. “So big…”

Bucky’s cock was twitching beneath you, his pre-cum leaking and trailing along your skin as he watched his best friend’s length disappear in and out of your wet cunt.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned. “Need… need to feel somethin’ too, baby doll.”

Shifting his hips, he laid you flat on the bed and shuffled to the side of your head, his cock springing free as he knelt beside you. His fist returned to his length, his thumb swiping over the tip to smear his pre-cum over the swollen head.

“Bucky…” you breathed, your body jolting as Steve buried his full length into you. “W-what are you—”

Your words were cut off as Bucky’s salt slicked tip rubbed against the curve of your lips—still puffy and sensitized from Steve. A low, ragged groan escaped him at the contact with your mouth.

“Need… need somethin’ warm and tight,” Bucky hissed through clenched teeth, his control evaporated. “Can’t take it anymore.”

Bucky glanced at Steve, who watched him with heavy, half-lidded eyes. “I ain’t waitin’ anymore,” Bucky snapped defiantly. “Punish me later for all I fuckin’ care. I need to fuck her mouth.”

Inside you, you felt Steve’s cock twitch at the mention of his friend’s own punishment.

“Careful,” Steve warned, his breath hitching. “Go easy on her, Buck. She’s so—fuck, she’s so tight down here… I don’t know if she can take you all the way in her mouth either.”

Despite the warning, Steve was very much losing the battle for his own control. His grip on your hips were tight, forcing himself to maintain that slow, agonizingly deep movement even as his own body screamed to pick up the pace and fuck you ruthlessly.

“I don’t give a damn,” Bucky grunted.

He fisted his hand in your hair, giving it a harsh, possessive tug to tilt your head back toward his lap. He slapped his cock against your lips, the wet, heavy sound of it making you wince as his masculine scent filled your lungs.

“Open up,” he ordered, his pupils so blown with lust that his eyes looked like bottomless black pits.

Your cunt clenched tighter around Steve as Bucky’s tip parted your lips to let himself in. His thick length dragged past your teeth and along your tongue, sliding deep until he hit the back of your throat. You let out a muffled, helpless choke around him—a sound that only made Bucky groan, his head tossing back in visceral pleasure.

“Thaaat’s it,” he cooed with a rasp. He drew his hips back slowly, letting you catch your breath for a split second before rocking hard against your face again. “Breathe through your nose, baby doll. Just take it.”

Bucky began to move, his movements were frantic and messy compared to Steve’s slow and easy rhythm inside you.

“Look at him, sweetheart,” Steve rumbled, his voice dropping condescending. “Look at how pathetic he is. After all that growlin’ and actin’ like a big man earlier, here he is now…”

You blinked through a haze of tears, watching as Bucky’s face scrunched in pure, agonizing pleasure. His forehead wrinkles were deeply lined, his eyes rolling back as his thrusts against your mouth became sloppier, driven by pure needy instinct.

Strings of saliva and drool slicked your chin, dripping down to the base of his cock with every frantic thrust. Every time your lips made wet, heavy contact with his heavy slicked balls, Bucky let out a deep, raspy groan that vibrated through your tongue—a sound so primal it made you clench even harder around Steve.

“Christ,” Steve moaned, his head dropping as his pace finally fractured faster and more desperate. “She’s squeezin’ me, Buck.”

Bucky huffed a shaky, dark laugh, his fingers tightening in your hair to hold you steady. “You like this, don’t you?” he grunted, looking down at your tear streaked face. “Bein’ used by your daddy’s two best friends. Shit... we’re supposed to be watchin’ over you. Keepin’ you safe. But instead, we’re just ruinin’ you.”

“Old enough to be her father,” Steve agreed with a rough, mocking laugh. He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, tilting your hips up to plunge even deeper, his thick length stretching you to your absolute limit.

“Now look at her. She’s ‘sposed to call us uncle, and now she’s got your cock in her mouth and mine stuffed deep in her cunt. She’s a filthy little thing, ain’t she?”

Bucky’s cock pulsed deep in your mouth after Steve’s filthy words registered. Your face was hot with shame, but you didn't care. The room reeled with the scent of sex and Bucky’s masculine musk, and all you wanted was to be filled by these two older men.

“Fuck—her daddy’s gonna kill us,” Bucky gasped as your tongue flicked against the sensitive underside of his head. “But I don’t fuckin’ care. It feels too good to stop.”

Steve’s thumb pressed against your sensitive clit, making you arch your back and muffle useless moans around Bucky’s cock. You felt like you were getting close—with the filthy words that they were both spurring, mixed with moans and grunts filling the air—it was becoming too much.

Your walls fluttered around Steve, and he barked out a rough laugh. “Fuck, she’s cummin’ all over my cock!”

“You know what that means, Stevie.” Bucky groaned, his dark eyes meeting his. “Means she’s beggin’ you to breed her. Beggin’ you to put your cum where it doesn't belong.”

You let out a broken whine, your vision blurring as your orgasm ripped through you. You came hard, sobbing around Bucky’s cock as Steve continued to piston into you like a rabid animal, uncaring of your sensitive state.

“Yeah?” Steve moaned, his thrusts turning sloppy and heavy as his own release caught up. “Shit—I think you’re right, Buck. I'm gonna fill her up.”

Your father had practically sent you into a den of wolves, leaving you to fend for yourself against men who had been starving. Steve and Bucky pawed at your body with a desperate hunger, the sounds leaving their throats sounding less like men and more like animals scenting prey.

Steve’s hips began to rut against yours uncontrollably, his breathing turning into a series of uneven, jagged hitches. He buried himself as deep as he could go, his cock throbbing violently against your cervix before he finally snapped. You let out a muffled cry as he came, a heavy, searing stream of cum flooding your overstimulated flesh, filling you until you felt like you were overflowing.

You saw Bucky’s balls draw up tight against your lips, , and as his fist tightened in your hair, you knew he was about to cum, too.

“That’s right,” Bucky encouraged, his voice dry. “Fill her up, Stevie. Make sure she’s spillin’ over with your cum, and then I’m gonna finish inside her, too.”

Bucky’s cock popped out of your mouth with a wet, sloppy sound, leaving a string of saliva trailing down your chin. Before you could even draw a full breath, Steve was pulling out of you, the sudden absence of his heat leaving you feeling cold and hollow for a split second.

But you didn’t stay empty for long.

“S-Steve?” you whimpered.

Bucky shuffled around the mattress as Steve moved to the side to make room. Bucky scrambled into the space between your thighs where Steve once was, his face dark and distorted with hunger. He wrapped his hand around his cock—now red, angry, and pulsing—and rubbed the head up and down your slit, slicking himself through the mess Steve had left behind.

A thick, pearly blend of his best friend’s seed and your own wetness coated the entire length of him. Bucky groaned at the sight, the friction of Steve’s fluids making him growl.

Using your arms to weakly prop yourself up, your stared at Bucky wide-eyed.

“Bucky… I—”

“You’re gonna be a good girl for him now,” Steve interrupted. He wasn’t asking. He was demanding.

With a heavy breath, Bucky guided himself against your entrance and pushed past the tightness, your walls enveloping him just as it did with Steve, except it was more intense this time.

“Oh my god—!” your eyes bulged wide, your breath leaving your lungs.

Bucky was thicker—and with your pussy already so raw and overstimulated, the feeling of him claiming that space was overwhelming. You were stretched deliciously, every nerve ending burned as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Look at you,” Bucky rasped, a shameful, shaky laugh bubbling in his chest as his lungs burned.

“God—when I found out…” he rocked his hips into you, Steve’s leftover seed making a wet, squelching sound. “…your daddy was gonna have a baby girl—shit, I was so ready to take care of you. I promised I’d be there for you, for Christ’s sake.”

He grabbed both of your legs, lifting them high and urging you to lock them around his waist so he could get even deeper.

“I never thought I’d be balls deep inside his precious girl.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself,” Steve lectured, his voice mocking. He gave himself slow, lazy strokes over his half-hard cock, his eyes stuck on the way your entrance was struggling to accommodate Bucky’s thickness.

“You should be beggin’ her father for forgiveness right now. But she feels too good, doesn’t she?”

Bucky growled, his eyes glassing over as he watched his thick length disappear in and out of your wet, stretched out heat.

“Hell yeah, she does.” He met your eyes now. “You’re so much tighter than a girl your age ‘ought to be for dirty, old men like us. You were made to be ruined, weren’t you, baby doll?”

You looked up at Bucky, and the sight of him between your legs—his composure fraying and completely undone, made your head spin with a dizzying rush of power.

“Bucky,” you panted, eyes half-lidded as you held his hungry gaze. “I want you to forget who my father is. I want to be the reason you can never look him in the eye again.” You swallowed hard, your fingers digging into the mattress. “Fill me up just like Stevie did… show me how much you really want to take care of me.”

Bucky’s eyes went wide, his pupils swallowing the blue as he processed the absolute, unadulterated filth coming from the girl he was sworn to protect.

Steve huffed a laugh, already feeling his cock twitch at your words. “Jesus—this girl…”

He had been close to bursting when he was in your mouth, but now, being swallowed by your tight pussy while those dirty words rang in his ears, it was too fucking much. His cock trembled and pulsed in a final, violent act of betrayal against his conscience.

He was close. Too fucking close.

“You little…” Bucky choked out, his voice failing him.

He grabbed your hips together, pulling you impossibly closer until the tip of his cock kissed your cervix.

“Fine,” he hissed, face scrunching in pleasure. “You want me to fill you up? I’ll fuckin’ knock you up, doll. You’re gonna carry my mess and Stevie’s all the way back home, and you’re gonna smile at your daddy while our cum is leakin’ out of you.”

The words were like a match to a fuse.

Between the wet slap of his thighs against yours and the rough sounds of his heavy breathing, you hit another breaking point. Your walls began to spasm, tightening down on him so hard that it made Bucky’s head roll back.

“Bucky… I—ah!”

Your pussy clenched almost painfully around Bucky’s cock. Even after the fucking Steve gave you, you were still so tight—and cumming again while Bucky was still buried deep made him grind his teeth together, his jaw clenching as he fucked you right through your second climax.

“Steve,” Bucky gasped as he fought to hold back his own release for just a second longer. “Steve, she’s—fuck, she’s goin’ again.”

Steve grinned, leaning over Bucky’s trembling shoulder. His large hand reached around your waist, overlapping Bucky’s grip, while his other palm rested on Bucky’s lower back—pushing him even deeper.

“That’s it, Buck,” Steve rumbled against Bucky’s ear. “Don’t you dare pull out. You put it right where I put mine. Got it?”

Bucky hissed, his hips moving in a frantic, uneven stutter as he felt himself unwinding. “Fu-fuck, okay—I’ll cum inside, just like you told me to—shit!”

He bottomed out completely, his entire body locking into a rigid arch. “Fuck!”

His length pulsed violently inside you—his cock streaming thick, hot ropes of heat into your overstimulated cunt. He was absolutely flooding you, his seed mixing with Steve’s and filling you until you felt heavy and stretched to the brim.

“Oh my god,” Bucky breathed, his chest heaving as he gave your hip a final, possessive squeeze. He looked down, taking in the sight of how completely debauched you looked. “I… shit. That felt too damn good.”

“Good boy,” Steve praised softly, his hand moving to stroke Bucky’s damp hair before his eyes dropped to the messy, wet junction of your thighs. “Look at that. She’s so full of us.”

Steve leaned down, gently pushing a stray hair out of your sweaty face. He gave you a soft, boyish smile—one that looked entirely too innocent given his age and the brutal way they had just had their way with you.

“Now, you’re not still thinkin’ about leavin’ us, are you?”

Bucky’s jaw remained slack, his chest heaving in heavy breaths as he stared down at you.

“No,” he rasped. “She ain’t goin’ anywhere.”

You could barely process their words. Your head felt light, and your limbs turning to jelly against the damp, sweaty sheets. The air in the room was stifling—heavy with the scent of sex and musk. Every time you tried to draw a full breath, your lungs felt weighted, and your eyelids began to flutter, growing heavy.

Steve and Bucky stayed right where they were, hovering over you like two twin peaks of heat and muscle.

“Aww, look at her,” Steve cooed, his voice dropping tenderly yet still mocking. He reached out, his calloused thumb gently brushing a tear off your cheek. “The little baby’s fallin’ asleep on us, Buck.”

“I know,” Bucky breathed, his body finally beginning to soften inside you, yet he still refused to pull out—anchored in place as your body began to shut down. “We put her through a lot today. When she wakes up, we should…—”

Bucky’s voice trailed off into a low, indistinct murmur as your eyelids finally failed you. The room faded into a hazy blur.

With your body overstimulated, heavy, and utterly spent, the only thing you could think of—the only thought that managed to pierce through the fog of exhaustion—was how the hell you were ever going to explain this to your dad.

thank you so much for taking the time to read my work! this is my longest fic ever, and i tried my best to proofread as much as i can so apologize for any mistakes. and in case you haven't noticed, yes, the fic title is inspired by the song tennessee whiskey!

You had been visiting your brother in Metropolis since you were an awkward, gangly teenager, just starting college in Boston. 

He was an intern photographer at the Daily Planet back then. He had braces and acne and no idea how to talk to women, but he would still complain that you were cramping his style by hanging around. You didn’t think he really minded it all that much behind it all, even if he did whinge about it constantly in the family group chat. 

Following him and all of his friends around made you feel more like the annoying little sister than you ever did when you were both growing up together - no matter how nice they all were. They spent a lot of time bar-hopping, which you did more than enough of on weekdays in college. You would often spend those weekends stressing about an incoming essay deadline or wishing that yourself and Jimmy could hang out alone for once. But at least, on those nights, you got to see Clark. 

Jimmy warned all his friends - made them swear up and down - not to make a move on you. Raved about how he would never speak to them again if they dated his sister because that was, ‘like, seriously against bro-code’. It was drilled into them in front of you, every single time you visited, which you found to be monumentally unfair. You couldn’t count on two hands the number of friends you had sleepover at your house as a teenager, only for them to end up in Jimmy’s room for the night. You were sure there was some lingering trauma from sitting cross legged and horrified in your room, listening to the headboard rattling next door.

Much to your smug satisfaction and Jimmy’s chagrin, most of Jimmy’s friends did end up trying their hand at getting you into their beds at some point or another. Maybe it was something about the off-limits label that attracted them. On those nights out, Jimmy would sulk in the corner for a while, until Lois eventually slapped him upside the head and told him to: “Get over it! It’s not like your sister would give them the time of day anyway.”

But none of that mattered to you, really - because Clark had never made a move. Not even once.

Clark was dorky and gentle and obscenely handsome. The kind of handsome that makes your breath catch and your stomach clench. The kind of handsome that makes you want to kiss someone the very first time you lay eyes on them. For years, you watched him get older and bigger and impossibly more attractive. He also watched you get older, treating you so kindly but with such distance. He couldn’t even ask about your personal life - blushed when Jimmy brought up anything about your love life in front of him.

You used to just watch him; catalogue his smiles and laughs and jokes and blushes. You kept him like a secret when you would return to college after spending the weekend in Metropolis - something you would pull out of the archives of your mind and replay during a dull property law seminar or a dull frat party where all the boys failed to impress you. You felt too old to be harbouring a crush like that - but there was no harm in it if nobody knew, right?

You had to watch him date Lois for a brief, awkward moment until it fizzled out. You had to watch every woman’s head turn to watch him when you walked into a bar with Jimmy’s friends. You had to watch him give more to everyone else than he ever gave to you and wonder why. 

You supposed it was something to do with the fact that you were his best friend’s kid sister - and maybe something to do with the million warnings Jimmy had dished out over the years.

But you were nothing if not determined. As you lost the ‘teen’ label at the end of your age, you began to flirt with Clark relentlessly. It was all under the pretense of messing with him, but really you were testing the waters. You supposed flirting at him might be a more apt term - he never returned your advances. You could relish in the way he would go pink immediately, but not in much else. He would stammer out an excuse to leave, embarrassment tinging his face, or change the subject swiftly.

When you graduated, you moved to Metropolis to begin your career as a defence attorney. Jimmy acted annoyed but you knew he was pleased. You two still bickered like hell, but you were best friends too. Now that you weren’t crashing at his apartment all the time, he had to actively invite you to things - which made it harder to pretend he didn’t want you around. His friend group became yours, including Clark.

Truthfully, you found Clark difficult to be around. Those moments when you saw him were what you looked forward to most in the world, but when you were in them, you found them hard to stomach. You knew as a general fact - like how 1+1=2 and the earth is round - that Clark Kent was the most beautiful man you would ever see in your life. But looking at him in person? It took your breath away and made your chest hurt.

Going on nights out with the group helped. You could still bank on the heat that would pool in your abdomen at the sight of him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, but the exposure therapy allowed you to at least act normal in a conversation with him. 

On one of those many nights out, everyone except yourself and Clark had had a bit too much to drink and the two of you were left to clear up the beer bottles and pizza boxes left in Jimmy’s kitchen together. You were flirting and teasing the way you always did. 

But you clearly flirted a bit too close to the sun because Clark - sweet, shy, chivalrous Clark -  snapped and before you knew it, he was fucking you, desperate and messy, on the kitchen counter while your brother and his friends slept a few doors down.

Clark came to your apartment the very next night to apologise for his totally reckless and completely unacceptable behaviour. He felt absolutely awful that he had compromised you in that way and hoped you didn’t think any less of him for it. He would never want to make anyone feel disrespected - much less you, his best friend’s sister.

That night had ended with both of your clothes on the floor and Clark pulling orgasm after orgasm from you, the way only he could. He stayed the night and left with his tail between his legs the next morning. 

This all leads you to the situation you were in now.

For six months, you had both been hanging out, for lack of a better term. He would come over to blow off steam from work frustrations, when he was upset but couldn’t tell you why, when he was tired and wanted to watch a movie with some takeaway, when he got some good news and wanted to tell someone straight away.

You thought it was love - it was for you, at least. It had been love since that very first night in Jimmy’s kitchen - maybe (definitely) before. But you couldn’t quite say the words when he wouldn’t acknowledge your place in his life in front of any of your friends. Clark’s toothbrush was in your bathroom but he couldn’t meet your eyes in public.

At the start, the secret had felt fun and sexy. Giving him your best fuck me eyes from across the room or biting your lip suggestively while hanging out with your friends and watching him blush and scramble to try to hide his excitement with a pillow. 

But having to watch girls approach him at bars and give him googly eyes, laughing too hard when he hadn’t even made a joke. Watching them ask him if he had a girlfriend and having to listen to him say no. It ate you up. 

Soon, it stopped even being fun to tease him. It would just annoy you to know that you wouldn’t have him - wouldn’t even be allowed to give him a chaste kiss or feel his huge arm wrap protectively around your body - until everyone had cleared out and gone home. On days when he felt particularly paranoid, he even insisted that you take separate Ubers.

You had spent so much of your life wanting him in secret, you had lost the patience for it.

Clark came up behind you and watched bacon sizzle and crackle through strands of your hair, his abnormally large hands gripping your hips and rubbing sleepy circles.

“Hey you.” You could feel a goofy smile on the soft lips pressing up against your neck.

“Hey yourself.” you said, switching the stove off so you could turn around to wrap your arms around him. He was all muscle and hard edges, but he melted to liquid when he felt your arms travel up his sides.

His hair was messy and drooping around his face. His eyes, still bleary with sleep, were not fully alert behind his lopsided glasses.

“You looked so deep in thought.” he said, casually lifting you up and placing your bum carefully on the island. “It was cute. What were you thinking about?”

You hesitated, knowing that you were about to knock that adorable smile right off his face.

“Well, I was thinking we should just show up to Jimmy’s together today. Saves me going home first for no reason.”

Clark’s smile did, indeed, drop. He frowned at you, confused. “But… then everyone would know.”

“Would that really be so bad?” You hated how weak it came out.

Clark sighed, and you felt his warm hands move away from you. You had to stop yourself from grabbing them back.

“How many times do we have to talk about this? We just can’t.”

It was true - you had both talked around the subject in circles for months and you had never pushed it. But for some reason, you could feel irritation bubbling up in your chest at Clark’s response, and maybe a little bit of offence. You felt a decision fall into your lap, firm and resolute. 

“Well, what’s the plan then?”

“The plan is; you go home at 5 or something, get changed and then we'll stay here again tonight after the party.” he said, moving his hands back to you, this time grabbing your bare thighs. “And then I plan to make you come on my tongue again, and again, and-”

As delightful as that sounded…

“No.” you cut him off sharply and Clark’s smirk dropped. 

“I mean what’s your plan here? Like, with us. Are we just going to sneak around forever?”

For a moment, Clark looked so caught off guard, you wondered if you had made a mistake. Maybe he had no plan because you weren’t what he wanted. Maybe this wasn’t what you thought it was - did you get the wrong end of the stick?

“Are you seeing someone else?” you asked sheepishly, looking down at your hands. It made you queasy to ask.

You could feel Clark jolt in surprise. “No!”

“Do you want to?”

“God, no. Why would you think that? I’m not- I don’t want that. No.” 

You looked up to see Clark, gaping at you in astonishment. You took in his frazzled, appalled face, tinged pink with mortification. 

“I don’t want that at all.” he muttered again shyly. 

“Okay.” you said, fighting the urge to reach for him. You felt silly to even entertain the idea. If there ever was a one-woman man, it was Clark. You almost smiled, before you remembered the conversation you had yet to conclude.

“What are we doing then, Clark? You’re not mine but you’re not not mine.”

“Jimmy can’t know.” Clark mumbled. His head hung low, curly locks just about ticking your nose. He didn’t say anything, just held on to you tight like it would stop you from walking down this road you were travelling. It didn’t.

“And I’m supposed to… what? Wait until you build up the courage to tell him? When will that be, Clark? Months? Years? You act like you’re my boyfriend when we’re alone but you won’t even look at me in front of our friends. It hurts my feelings.”

You hadn’t meant for the hurt to seep into your voice. You had planned to give him hell - get angry. But you guessed the hurt had lingered and festered inside you for long enough. It needed a place to go.

Clark was crestfallen. He looked up to find fat tears spilling out over your eyelids and slowly down your cheeks. He tried to wipe them away with his thumb, calloused but gentle. You shoved his hand away unceremoniously and wiped at them aggressively with your sleeve instead. You saw hurt flash in his eyes at that, but he said nothing.

“I’m sorry, baby. I never wanted to make you feel that way. I never want to hurt you - ever. That’s the last thing I want. But I can’t tell Jimmy about us when he’s made it so clear for years that you are the only thing in his life that’s off-limits.”

“Fuck Jimmy! He can’t just decide that for us, Clark. He might be grumpy and grossed out with us for a few days but he would get over it. God knows he’s done it to me with enough of my girl friends from home.”

“I can’t risk it.” Clark said and his voice was so decisive and immoveable that you feared there was nothing else you could say to change his mind. You tried everything... all except one thing.

“But I love you, Clark. And I don't really want to hide it anymore.”

Clark was stunned, completely shellshocked. His mouth parted as if you had slapped him and he stood in front of you, suspended in disbelief.

You thought this might happen and you allowed for it. This might be a big moment for him and you didn’t need him to say it back. You knew that all those years you spent pining after him might mean you would fall harder and that was something you could accept. But you just hoped it might snap him out of his resolve to act like this thing between you wasn’t solid and real. 

But as the seconds and then minutes ticked by, you realised that Clark wasn’t just not going to say it back. He wasn’t going to say anything. He was still just looking at you, completely frozen, like he couldn’t get out of the conversation quickly enough. 

You felt humiliation gnaw at you as you decided that you had completely misunderstood what it was that was happening between the two of you. He was panicking at the idea that he had attached you. You had never pegged Clark as the sort of person to keep someone around for a quick fuck - it didn’t even make sense, really. It wasn’t like you two had sex every single time he stayed over, but maybe there was a lot you didn't realise about the situation in general.

“Okay.” was all you said.

Your heart was racing but you kept your face blank. You slowly moved around the apartment to pack some of your stuff up. Fluffy socks, phone charger, underwear. You took your time collecting your things, giving him ample time to stop you, ask you to stay. He didn’t.

A voice in your head rang out, Surely, he’s going to say something. Any minute now. He won’t let you leave.

The cruel voice became more and more hushed with each article of clothing you threw into your old shopping bag, until it was just a whisper.

“Bye Clark.” you said, waiting for one last minute at his front door. 

Still, he looked at you like a guilty dog and said nothing. You turned and left before the tears got the chance to reappear.

Maybe Jimmy had a point after all. You had ignored his urgings to not date any of his friends with an almost cocky abandon but look who was laughing now - and who was crying.

Sure, you had dated a few guys in college - even let some stick around long enough to call you their girlfriend. But you had never been attached like this before.

Clark had always been at the back of your mind somewhere. Back when you were in college, he had felt so unattainable, like some celebrity you could only dream about having. But every time one of your dickhead, daddy’s money boyfriends said something snarky to a waiter or told you that you “just wouldn’t understand the situation in Bavaria, babe”, you couldn’t help thinking that Clark would never.

But, you supposed, at least they were always proud to have you on their arm. They introduced you to their friends and family. Guess they’re all the same, just different versions.

You called out of work for two days and told all your friends that you were sick. Jimmy called to your flat with medicine and chicken soup on your mom’s instructions. He looked suspicious at your dry nose and clear voice, but he didn't say anything. You supposed your swollen eyes convinced him. 

It was almost three months later and you still refused to go out with Jimmy and the rest of the group. 

“Come on.” Jimmy whined. “This is the seventeenth time in a row.”

“Okay, more like the fifth. And maybe I've taken a vow of sobriety or something.” You rolled your eyes.

“Then just come and have a Coke. duh.” He kicked his shoes off and put his feet on your coffee table. You swatted them with a magazine and he smiled mockingly at you, wiggling his toes.

“You should be happy about this. The last time we went out you said I annoy you.”

“You do. But you can be fun sometimes, too.”

You smiled, feeling a rush of affection. You made a note to visit him more often. He was being cavalier but you could tell he did miss having you around.

“Lois said she’s really pissed at you, too,” he said with a shrug. “She said you’re ditching us.”

“Liar.” you deadpanned. “I met her yesterday for lunch.”

Jimmy pouted at you, muttering something about how you were no fun anymore. A few years ago, he found it much easier to get a rise out of you. Becoming a lawyer has a way of knocking the naivety out of you.

“Seriously, though. When will you come round again? Everyone misses you. Not me, obviously, but the others do.”

You raised an eyebrow at him, but didn’t have the time to answer. At that moment, you heard someone shuffling around for the spare key you left in the lantern outside your door. 

Instinctively, you jolted upwards and jumped up from the sofa, knocking some peppermint tea on yourself and Jimmy in the process.

“Dude, what the fuck - oh hey.”

You stood completely frozen, watching Peter walk into your home with a bottle of wine and a bouquet of flowers. 

You had completely forgotten that you had told him to come over and let himself in after work. Based on complete muscle memory, you had been expecting Clark to walk through the door instead. 

A million emotions flooded through you all at once. Relief that Jimmy was not, in fact, about to learn that you had been sleeping with his best friend. Embarrassment, at Jimmy finding out about your new fling from work. And - worst of all - disappointment, that it was no longer Clark walking through your door to bring you flowers and wine before settling in for a cozy movie night.

Yourself and Peter were in an uncomfortable stand-off, staring at each other from across the room. He looked just as shocked as you at your reaction to him walking through the door. His eyes flicked from you to Jimmy. You realised dimly that you had reacted as if you were caught red-handed with another man. 

Jimmy obviously came to the same conclusion. Giving you a weird look, he stood up and shook hands with Peter, introducing himself as your brother. 

Peter immediately straightened up, shooting him a warm smile as they swapped pleasantries.

It gave you a chance to get your bearings and squash down all those uncomfortable feelings coursing through you.

Peter was great, truly. He was nothing like any of your past boyfriends. He was respectful, thoughtful, and made you feel like a priority from the get-go. He had no weird ex-situationships still in the picture, no loose morals or dubious politics, no tendency towards anger in the midst of a disagreement. The two of you could talk for hours. You had met all his friends and loved them. He was handsome and funny and super smart; you had known as much just from working with him and seeing him win case after case. He was the guy everyone in the office had a crush on - your friends at work droned on and on about how lucky you were to be seeing him. 

So why did you catch yourself feeling, at your lowest points, like he was just a poor imitation of Clark?

“I guess you’re the reason she hasn’t been coming out with us anymore, huh.” Jimmy said wryly, shooting you a dirty look. You rolled your eyes.

“Guilty.” Peter laughed, a smile gracing his handsome face. “Sorry about that.”

As if you could read his mind (and sometimes you really felt like you could) - you thought you might have known what Jimmy was about to say before the thought even occurred to him himself. 

You floundered a bit, knowing what was coming and not having the power to stop it. He shot you an innocent look. “Actually, I was just saying that you guys should come out for drinks with my friends on Saturday. Do you have plans?”

You wanted to murder Jimmy with a butcher knife, but you suppose you did owe him one for making it sound like you had already mentioned the existence of Peter. In fact, you hadn’t told anyone outside of work. You weren’t really sure why and you didn’t think about it too much - it just made you feel guilty.

Peter was overjoyed. He agreed, insisting that you didn’t have plans, looking at you to confirm. 

You hesitated. It was easy to turn Jimmy down and tell him to mind his own business when he asked why. But you weren’t quite sure how to explain the situation to Peter. 

Hey, my top-secret kinda-ex slash brother’s best friend will be at said drinks and I would rather throw myself off a cliff than have to see him again because I had to fight for my life to move on from him?

Somehow you didn’t think it would go down super well.

You nodded reluctantly and Jimmy clapped once with a self-satisfied grin on his lips. Dick.

“I'll leave you two lovebirds to it then. See you Saturday!” He pointed at you. “My place, 7 o’clock.”

When it was just yourself and Peter, things became a bit quieter. You stood across from each other for just a second in mutual awkwardness, until Peter took a couple of steps towards you and wrapped you in an embrace, giving you a quick kiss to the cheek.

“Hello.” You smiled up at him.

“Hi there.” He smiled back. “So what was that all about, huh?”

He looked a bit uncertain. The first time he stayed the night at yours, he found some of Clark's clothes in your wardrobe and his toothbrush still in your bathroom. Up until that point, you had kept them purposely. You told yourself you hadn't gotten around to throwing them out but you knew you were realistically just holding out hope that he would call and you guys could work it out. 

You threw them out the next day. Peter never said anything about it, but you knew he wondered whose they were. At the time, he had just looked warily at them, but you could see a hint of suspicion every time you did something weird - something like this.

You groaned. “I'm sorry! I’m just so bad with that stuff, I lost track of time and I wasn’t expecting Jimmy to still be here when you called and I was just overwhelmed- urgh, I don’t know! Thank god you two are less awkward than me or we might still be standing here in silence.”

Peter laughed affectionately and brought you in for a kiss, but you could taste the doubt on his lips.

You arrived an hour late to Jimmy's house. You had moved slowly, ‘forgotten’ to book the Uber, taken longer than usual to do your makeup - hoping that Peter would eventually tell you that he wasn’t feeling it anymore and that you two should stay at home instead. 

That never happened. 

Seeing how keen he was to build a relationship with your brother and your friends made you feel… a bit weird. Almost guilty. Even though it didn't make sense.

When you arrived, everyone jumped up to greet you instantly. Cat and Lois hugged you as if they hadn’t seen you in years (the three of you had gone for a cinema date just the evening before). Some of Jimmy's college friends began to test their luck with you as always, but Jimmy beat them away. Even Jimmy was overly glad to see you, not even grunting the performative ‘ugh, it’s you’ when he answered the door. 

Clark, however, didn’t stand up. He was perched on Jimmy's armchair, suddenly very interested in the ingredients of his beer. 

You couldn’t stand how disappointed you were about it. Your chest felt tighten and there was an ache in your heart so painful that you almost doubled over. But you didn’t. You put on a fantastic poker face and went around the room to introduce Peter.

“He. Is. Gorgeous.” Cat said, eyes almost popping out of her sockets.

“How do you always get the hottest guys?” Lois whined in agreement, glancing over at him where he stood chatting with Jimmy. “It’s so not fair. You need to start sending me on blind dates.”

You laughed but truthfully, this was all just making you feel worse. You knew you should be grateful that someone like Peter even gave you the time of day. Why should Clark be able to make you feel like this, after all these months?

You decided to bite the bullet. You weren’t okay but you would act like you were until you started to be. You would talk to Clark, even though it was hard. Even though half of the cells in your body were screaming at you to get closer and the other half were screaming to stay away. You would show him you were fine and that you were over him and that things were okay even if they weren’t.

Your nerves of steel weakened to paper the closer you got to him and when you stood in front of the couch where he sat, your knees were wobbling.

Clark looked up from the sticker on his beer bottle in astonishment. He must have read it one hundred times over by now. He was glancing warily at you, as if he thought you might start screaming at him. His blue eyes were round and cute and guilty and he was pouting at you in that way he always did when he had done something wrong. You used to kiss that pout off his lips whenever it appeared… but that wasn't the point right now.

“Hey Clark," you said. “Mind if I sit?”

He blinked at you and you wondered for a split-second if he might actually say you couldn’t. He shook his head quickly, though and you popped down beside him.

You realised, then and there, that you hadn’t really planned out what to say. You fumbled with your fingers for a bit and Clark watched you, face twisted up like he was in pain. 

This isn’t exactly pleasant for me either, Clark!

“How have you been?” you landed on, speaking gently as if you were going to scare him off. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Yeah, fine. Work is work.” he said with a shrug. His voice was strained. “How about you?”

“The same, I guess. I won that case - you know the one I was telling you about, with the basketball coach?”

“Oh wow." he said, the first hint of genuine pleasure spilling through to his voice. “Congrats, that seemed like a tough one.”

“Yeah, you’re telling me. Peter and I pulled many all-nighters on that one.”

You shouldn’t have said that. A stretched silence swam between the two of you while Clark surveyed Peter. He was now chatting busily with Jimmy and Cat, who was looking at him starstruck. 

“That's Peter?” Clark finally asked, voice low. 

You had spoken about Peter to Clark before - back when he was just someone you worked with and Clark was the one going home with you at night, albeit secretly.

“Yeah.” you mumbled. Your toes were curling and an anxious feeling was working its way up your gullet.

He just nodded, clenching his beer bottle so hard his knuckles went white. He never took his eyes off Peter. This was clearly a bad idea.

You were on the cusp of standing up from the sofa with some lame excuse about how you were getting yourself another drink when you caught sight of Peter and Jimmy walking in your direction.

The same panic that you felt in the living room of your apartment, when Peter and Jimmy met for the first time, grasped you again. Your eyes blew wide and you looked around for some kind of escape. Where was Cat when you needed her, demanding you come into the kitchen for shots?

Clark looked no less enthused, face crumpling in discomfort and something else you couldn’t read. He looked tired.

“Clark!” Jimmy boomed, voice warm with excitement and liquor. “You gotta meet my boy, Peter.”

Jimmy always got like this when he was tipsy. Warm and excited and bubbly. He also started talking like a goddamn fratboy.

“He’s your boy now?” you drawled, raising an eyebrow at him with amused sarcasm. Jimmy made connections quicker than anyone you knew.

“Okay, your boy then, Miss lovergirl. Don't worry, I'm not trying to steal him.”

You didn’t even have the chance to flush red. The beer bottle in Clark's hand exploded under his grip, glass and beer flying all over the two of you.

“Shit.” you squealed, standing up from the sofa and brushing what you could off from yourself.

Clark sprang up instinctively and grabbed your forearms to stop you from brushing off the glass before you got cut. “Gosh, I'm sorry.” he gushed. “Don’t touch anything. Hold on- careful.” 

And then he was grabbing your hips, large palms searing through the fabric of your dress, and you were listening to the glass crunch beneath his shoes while he lifted you away from the shards of glass.

You knew Clark was ridiculously strong - strong enough to break a beer bottle with nothing but one hand. He always claimed it was all from his days on the farm at home in Kansas. But when you saw him like this, lifting a whole person as if they were air, muscles not even tensing, you wondered if he had actually just been gifted with some rare genetic disorder. It didn’t seem humanly possible. It took your breath away.

When your two feet were firmly planted on the ground once again, Clark took to brushing off any remaining shards of glass from the skirt of your mini sundress, collecting them with his hands so they wouldn't land on your toeless sandals.

You could feel sticky beer drying on your thighs and dress - you were just grateful that it was fruity-flavoured and relatively pale. If you were walking around wafting the stench of beer with a noticeable stain on the front of your dress, you might have just gone straight home.

“Sorry.” Clark muttered again softly, inspecting the lace on your dress to see if any glass got stuck. 

“It’s okay,” you tried to say, but it came out as more of a whimper. The feeling of his hands on your upper thighs, even through your dress, was concentrating your attention delightfully. You hadn’t felt those hands touch you in months.

Clark looked up from your dress for just a second and met your gaze. You thought you might have seen something there in that wondrous blue - something dazed and wanting - but the moment was over before you could be sure.

Peter emerged beside you, eyes flitting between yourself and Clark, and you snapped back to reality.

‘Jimmy gave me a towel for you.’ he said quietly, handing you over a rough rag that smelt slightly of mildew.

“Yuck,” you said, trying to keep your tone light and airy. “He clearly wants me to smell mouldy. Let me go find another.”

You tried not to think too hard about the fact that you were leaving Peter and Clark alone together.

At 10 o’clock sharp, Jimmy began to usher everyone out the door and towards the direction of the bar. People filed out slowly, and you noticed the chatter subside slightly as you whizzed around the kitchen with a trash bag, dumping in as much as you could before you too were steered in the direction of the bar. You knew how much Jimmy hated waking up with a hangover to find the kitchen in shambles.

Peter was waiting patiently for you in the next room over, still talking to Lois and Cat. You could vaguely hear Lois asking whether he had any hot lawyer friends. 

You tried not to take any heed of Clark, but your brain was betraying you. You were accidentally taking note of where he was and what he was doing at any given time. When he joined you in the kitchen, you didn’t look up.

Clark grabbed a bin bag and began to help you clear up. You wanted to tell him it was okay, you got it covered, but you felt too uncomfortable to even speak. You were sure Clark wouldn’t have listened to you anyway, gentleman that he was.

“He your boyfriend?” Clark asked. He tried to keep his voice casual but you could tell he wasn’t feeling very casual. A quick glance at him showed you that much. His brows were furrowed, as if in concentration, and his lips were pressed into that familiar pout.

“No,” you sighed. Not yet, was the unspoken follow-up.

It was true - Peter was not your boyfriend yet. You two hadn’t had the ‘Let’s see each other more seriously’ conversation or even the ‘Let’s be exclusive’ conversation yet. It had only been a month, but you knew he was just biding his time until he knew your feelings. 

You wished him the best of luck with that. You hardly knew them yourself.

You knew from the look on his face that Clark was grappling with his words, trying to fetch the right ones.

“I thought you said you’d never date another lawyer.” he finally landed on. “You called them slimy.”

You chuckled. “Most of them are. Peter's a nice guy though.”

“Are you…’ Clark hesitated. “Are you happy…”

… like you were with me.

Your heart sank and your lip wobbled. You felt the needling sting of tears behind your eyes and you shoved them down with gusto. The answer was no. God, no. Not even close. 

It was so un-Clark of him - so cruel of him to even ask. He had plenty of time to reach out and chose not to. It was almost like he was now trying to sabotage your attempt at moving on. 

You could be cruel too.

“He is proud to be with me. Brings me around his friends. I met his sister last week.”

You didn’t want to look at him when you said it but you couldn’t help it - it was like a car crash you could see happening for miles, but you couldn’t stop watching. His face crumpled and fell and you immediately regretted saying anything. Clark was like a puppy. As soon as that wounded look appeared on his face, your immediate instinct was to go to him and soothe and coo and kiss. But that was no longer in your power.

He was completely tortured by your words, as if they had leaned out and slapped him in the face. You swore you saw the ghost of tears in his bright blue eyes and it tore you in two.

You wondered if this was all guilt, or whether any part of him genuinely felt the loss of you. Did he miss you like you missed him? Did he feel your absence every morning when he woke up? Did he miss the way you wouldn’t shut up talking his ear off on your movie nights? Did he ever even consider reaching out?

“Alright, bozos. Stop being responsible and cleaning up. Give me those trash bags. Off you go, please and thank you.”

It almost made you jump when Jimmy came bouncing in. You handed him the bag without argument and stalked off to find Peter.

“Clark is… interesting.” Peter observed casually, watching him chatting halfheartedly with one of your mutual friends by the bar.

“Uh-huh,” you agreed, affecting indifference. In reality, your heart was rattling around like a rabbit in your chest.

“Are you guys close?”

“Oh… no, not really.”

Peter nodded and the two of you sat in silence for a while.

You were tired and wanted to go home - didn’t want to see what you knew was in store for you - but you knew you had about an hour until Jimmy would even hear about you leaving. Peter had been a bit distant all night. You really should have asked him if everything was ok, but you were afraid it might spark a conversation that you were just not ready to have.

You knew it would happen - it always did - but it felt like it happened in slow motion this time. A tall, leggy blonde woman flounced over to Clark, and put one graceful hand on his shoulder blade. She was dressed in an elegant, black dress and you thought miserably about the beer-stained number you were currently sporting. You couldn’t find even one hint of doubt or self-consciousness in this woman. She was beautiful.

Of course, you were forced to see this every time the two of you went out together but for months, you at least had the reassurance that, while you couldn’t quite stake your claim on him publicly, he would still be going back with you at the end of the night. That wasn’t the case anymore.

Clark spun around at the touch, smiling politely. You had no idea what sweet nothings she was saying to him. She was probably telling him all about how she saw him from across the room and wanted to say hi. He would probably laugh - respond with ‘hi’ and ask her if she wanted a drink. You felt nauseous.

“I'm gonna head out.” Peter said, smiling in an odd, displeased way that you had never seen before. He was standing in front of you with his coat already on. You hadn’t even noticed him get up.

You were a little flustered but you got up quickly, grateful for the excuse to get out of here and out of Clark's vicinity. 

“Ok great, let me just say bye to Jimmy.” you said, collecting your bag from the floor. You paused when you saw him shake his head.

“I’m gonna go back to my place." he said decisively. 

“Okay…” you said, frowning up at him. You had clocked that he was being distant, but you didn’t think this would be the outcome.

“Walk me out of the bar though?” he asked. You nodded and began to walk out with him, bringing your coat in case you couldn’t bring yourself to go back in and watch Clark getting hit on.

You stepped outside and a shiver ran through you at the nip of September in the air. You could still see Clark talking to the woman through the glass walls but at least there was some sort of barrier between you now. You put your back to it and tried not to think about it. 

The street was dead silent, except for a few distant sirens and the odd car passing. Your ears were ringing unpleasantly from the booming noise of the bar.

“Sorry if it wasn’t very fun.” you tried for a light tone. “I swear it’s usually better than this.”

Peter gave you a look you had never seen before - somewhere between a smile and a grimace. 

"It was fun, really. Your friends are super nice. But…”

You thought you saw where this was going. Not now, you wanted to beg him. Please, not right now. You thought about plugging your ears with your fingers.

“There's clearly something happening between yourself and Clark. I’ve always kind of known there was someone else and you can deny it but you looked like you were about to throw up when someone else approached him just now. I really like you, but I don't want to get any more attached to someone who is clearly… hung up on someone else.”

He was smiling at you apologetically - as if he had something to apologise for. As if you hadn’t completely wasted his time. As if you hadn’t basically done exactly to him what Clark had done to you - string you along without giving you all of himself. Hell, you hadn’t even wanted him to meet your friends.

“I'm so sorry.” you said. “I don't know what’s wrong with me. I just can’t…”

Can’t shake him.

“There's nothing wrong with you.” he assured you. It almost made you feel worse - how nice he was being about the whole thing.

You said your goodbyes to Peter and he promised to call by tomorrow to grab some of his things. He gave you a kind wave as he lowered himself into the Uber, but you could tell how disappointed and upset he was.

You sighed.

You couldn’t have Clark but you couldn’t have anyone else either. He wouldn't take you but you couldn’t release yourself from the grip he had on you either. You were stuck in this awful limbo. 

You finally allowed yourself to give in and do what you had been fighting not to since you stepped out into the cold. When you looked through the glass walls, Clark was still standing at the bar.

But instead of flirting with that woman as you had expected, he was completely alone. Eyes concentrated solely on you.

For a second, you almost thought he had heard the conversation you just had. He was looking at you with such sad reverence and guilt. 

You hailed a taxi. 

You were rotting in self-pity alone that Sunday. Peter had come and gone to collect his things. You two had had a cup of coffee while he was here - he still seemed hurt but it looked like he was taking the whole thing a lot more graciously than you had with Clark.

You had felt strangely optimistic when he left with a light kiss to your cheek and a promise to see you tomorrow in the office but as the hours dripped by, doing laundry and meal prep, you began to get the blues. You felt very sorry for yourself indeed.

Another failed situationship. Thanks to Clark. 

Not that you necessarily blamed him for this or for any of the other men that you dumped, for the sole reason that they were fine but they just weren't quite Clark Kent.

Maybe you had built him up in your head, you tried to reason, but you knew it wasn’t true. He was just the gold standard for all men; as close to perfect as they came. Maybe you were stupid to think that he was someone you could have. 

You thought about whether he had gone home with the blonde woman from last night. You doubted it. For all the women that approached Clark in bars, he had never been one for a one-night-stand - had never taken any of them up when they offered themselves to him. He was a relationship man, through and through, which made this whole situation harder - because why was he only not like that with you?

A knock on your door made you stop folding. It could only be Jimmy - nobody else would show up unannounced. You knew immediately that he was there to ask what had happened with Peter. You had shot him a quick text to let him know things had ended between the two of you before turning your phone off hours ago.

You slipped silently over to the door, wondering if you could get away without answering. Glancing through the peephole, though, you spotted a very nervous-looking Clark Kent. Standing at your door in a casual shirt and slacks, hair mussed up and glasses askew. He held a bunch of blushing roses, wrapped in brown paper, in his arms.

You stepped back from the door as if it had burned you. Your heart was galloping. 

The sight had been everything you had wanted for the longest time. You had waited months to see this and here it was, right as you had given up hope of it ever happening.

You hesitated for a moment. Did you even want to let him in?

Part of you felt hope and familiar giddiness bloom in your chest. Clark Kent at your door with flowers was definitely a sight for your sore, heartbroken eyes.

Another part felt more cautious. Clark had listened to you tell him you loved him and completely ignored you for months, until you showed up to a party with another man. Wasn't that a bad sign?

But, worst of all, part of you wondered if he was there purely to bury the hatchet. If these roses meant, Hey, sorry I let us do that silly thing for a few months - let’s forget all about it and be friends again. You have Peter now anyway, right?

“I can hear you.” a sheepish voice muttered from the other side of the door.

You slowly pulled the door open with a frown. “I thought I was being pretty quiet.”

Seeing Clark in front of you was different to seeing him through your peephole. Your knees went to jelly every time you saw him, tall and imposing and wonderfully handsome. You found to keep the worship from your face.

“I wanted to talk,” he stammered. “It’s ok if you don’t want to see me though.”

You parted the door and, with a sigh of relief, Clark crossed the threshold to stand in the middle of your apartment, smiling slightly as he looked around.

You wondered if he was remembering everything that had happened between the two of you here. The slow, lazy mornings when he would wake you up with kisses and coffee. The evenings where you held him while he cried about stuff he was not yet ready to share with you. The late nights where it felt like his body had been made specifically to fit yours.

“I messed up. Really bad.”

You nodded for him to continue, no intention of speaking. He shifted on his feet, sucking in an awkward, shaky breath.

“I know that you and Peter broke up because of me. I'm really sorry.”

The words were knocking around like pool balls in your head. Your heart shattered. So that’s why he was here. You were angry at him for even bothering you with this. Angry at yourself for hoping for more. You could feel your face curl up.

“Who told you that?” you demanded, hand on your hip. You hated giving Clark this treatment because every voice in your head screamed that he didn't deserve it. But you always let him walk all over you - it didn't matter that he didn't mean to.

“Jimmy…” he tried hesitantly.

“I didn't tell Jimmy anything about why we ended things.” 

You avoided the term ‘broke up’ - it made it sound like the situation between yourself and Peter had been more than it actually was. You wondered if Clark used the same term in his head when thinking about the two of you. 

“Well, I guess I kind of just… maybe, assumed?” Clark was uncomfortable now, squirming under your angry gaze. 

You sighed, the fight leaving your body. You were numb with humiliation. You logically knew your feelings for him were obvious, but knowing he could read you like a book still made you feel pathetic. You didn’t want him feeling sorry for you. You wished you could have showed up last night with Peter and not given Clark the time of day. Shown him that you were unaffected. But if he really wanted to talk about it, you would be honest. 

“Well, you would be right. I'm just… struggling to move on.”

Clark blinked at you.

“Obviously, I will. I can't be hung up on you forever.” you rushed to clarify, tripping over your words. You wouldn't meet his eyes. “But I guess maybe just because I had a crush on you for like, forever, it’s just harder to shake it. But I will. You don’t need to feel bad, or whatever.”

“But I don’t want you to move on.” Clark said, eyes gentle and sad and his soft lips pouting. 

Your eyes snapped to him. You said nothing. Your vital organs felt dislodged in your body. 

“Sweetheart, I told Jimmy everything. About us, I mean. Just today.” 

The words flooded out of him like a faucet, a line between his brows and an attractive little winkle forming at his pretty lips. He didn’t even give you a moment to process his words - just charged on.

“You know what the worst part is? He already knew.” Clark smiled sadly at you and couldn’t breathe suddenly, as if he had reached out and grabbed the air from your lungs.

“He… what?”

“He knew.” Clark repeated, rubbing a hand over his face. “Everyone did, apparently. He said ‘You guys weren’t exactly subtle, Clark.’ in that annoying voice he does when he’s got the jump on you. He was just waiting for us to tell him. Said he wasn’t mad at all until I went and-” his voice broke. “Well, until I went and broke your heart.”

You felt a rush of love for your big brother so impactful that tears began to swell in your eyes. He hadn’t changed since you guys were kids. You knew him inside out and you knew he would be like this. You knew he would act all grossed out, probably complain about it for the rest of your lives, but in reality he would be glad to see you two together - glad to see his two favourite people happy and happy together. 

He was only mad that Clark had broken your heart.

You wish you could have felt some sort of satisfaction that you were right. You were right because you knew your big brother better than anyone else did, like you had always told Clark. That this whole thing had backfired on him because he didn't listen to you.

But really, you just felt a sort of biting hollowness. Your relationship - if you could even call it that - had been blown up and for what? Jimmy didn’t care - seemingly none of your friends did. Everything the two of you had was gone because Clark was too much of a coward to claim you in front of people who would have been happy for you anyway. You watched the pink roses hang dejectedly from his hand while he waited for a response you weren’t planning on giving him.

“I know I'm probably too late.” Clark said in not much more than a whisper. “But I can’t stop thinking about that morning you walked out of my apartment. When you told me you loved me and I just didn’t say anything.”

You almost winced at the reminder.

“But I love you, sweetheart. Gosh, I love you more than anything. I love you so much it terrifies me. It's why I couldn't bear to tell anyone about us. I had convinced myself Jimmy would go crazy about it. I thought it would blow up and I'd lose both of you in the fallout. But I ended up pissing him off and losing you anyway.”

You felt a bit pathetic for your reaction to him - the way your chest clenched at his words and the way he said them. A real acknowledgement that something had been there, between the two of you. That you weren’t imagining this thread tying the two of you together for years. That he loved you.

You just blinked at Clark. You were struggling to fill your lungs.

“Say something? Please?” Clark begged you. He was towering over you but he had a strange way of making it look like he was looking up at you, all sweet and guilty.

“What would you like me to say, Clark?"

You were still angry with him - so angry it made your teeth clench and your stomach curl. You were, probably, even more angry with him now that you knew he had loved you and still given you up.

“That it’s not too late.” he murmured, eyes growing wet. “That I can still get you back. I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I can't tell you how sorry. These last three months have been miserable for me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before? Why didn’t you call? I waited for you.”

His head hung like a child, unshed tears spilling onto his pretty cheeks.

“I didn’t think you would want to hear from me,” he admitted. “I didn’t know how to tell you that I love you without being able to call you mine. And, to be honest, I was panicking because everything you were saying made sense. And I knew I had been avoiding thinking about it.”

You sighed. Yes, you were angry - but you weren’t as angry as you knew you should be. You couldn’t help the way your heart was soaring one minute in the aftermath of his confession, and squeezing the next as you saw Clark beg.

“I made up my mind to tell Jimmy about a month ago,” he continued, uselessly blinking away more tears. “but when I went to your apartment, you had that guy over. Gosh, sweetheart - seeing you with him killed me.”

You crossed your arms in front of you.

“Was just trying to move on, Clark.” you mumbled, sniffling. “I didn't know- how could I have known? You didn’t say anything.”

He nodded frantically, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

“You couldn’t have, honey, it’s not your fault. It's mine. I know I messed everything up.”

You didn’t need to see him beg any longer. You had been so starved of him for the last three months, you didn’t think you could put yourself through anymore waiting. And, besides, he looked so sorry and pretty and sweet in front of you, crying.

“You didn’t mess everything up, Clark.” you said, stepping forward to gingerly take the flowers from his hands and bring them to your nose. They smelt fresh.

He watched you take them and put them on the counter with a sort of awe usually reserved for when you were sitting on top of him. The thought made you flush.

“You hurt me. Really really bad. But I love you and I've waited so long for you to be mine. I don't want to wait anymore.”

Clark was giving you a watery smile, the edges of his mouth twitching in disbelief. You couldn’t hold yourself back from kissing him anymore. 

He had the eyes of a baby cow or some other bright-eyed wondrous creature when he looked at you step closer to him - in raptures.

Kissing him felt like you had been holding your breath for a very long time and you finally let yourself breathe again. You had missed this - missed him - so much. Nothing was like this - nothing at all.

You stood beside Clark at the door, shoulder knocking into his arm in what you hoped was a reassuring gesture. Your knees were shaking slightly, threatening to collapse from under you, and Clark looked nervous too.

“C’mon” you said gently, opening the door to Jimmy's apartment and walking in. You could feel Clark's enormous presence behind you, almost throwing a shadow over your frame.

You were attacked immediately.

“Finally!” from Cat and Lois. 

Many fist bumps were dished out to Clark by Jimmy's college friends. You heard one of them mutter conspiratorily, “If it can’t be me, I'm glad it’s you, bro.”

“Thanks bro.” Clark nodded, smiling over at you cheekily. You just rolled your eyes but you couldn’t help the smile dancing on your lips. 

Clark grabbed your hand and kissed your knuckles gently. You felt his messy hair tickle your wrist.

“No!” Jimmy screamed. “When I said I was cool with this,” his finger gestured between yourself and Clark. “I meant, like in theory. As a concept. I don't want to see it.”

You narrowed your eyes at him. “I see you’re already on the beers.” you said, pulling him in for a quick hug. He didn’t say anything, but he gave you a quick peck on the cheek and you understood everything he didn’t have to communicate. 

“So you’re, like, totally done with Peter, right?” Cat asked once everyone had settled into comfortable conversation, feigning indifference. Clark pretended not to hear, enveloped in conversation with one of Lois' high school friends, but you just about saw his ears perk up.

You almost couldn’t help the wild, giddy laugh that escaped you. It captured Clark's attention fully and his lips curved up slightly, flushing red, as he noticed he had been caught. Lois' high school friend awkwardly latched on to another conversation.

“Do you want his number?” you asked, looking back to Cat as Clark put a large, warm hand on the small of your back. He kissed your temple.

“God, yes.”

“So when did you guys start sneaking around?” Lois joined the circle, giving you a sly smirk.

Clark went a deep shade of red, clearing his throat with embarrassment and clutching you a little tighter.

“January.” you returned. 

“January?” Cat gawped. “We have thought you guys were banging for at least a few years now. We thought it was, like, a sexy little game or something, keeping it a secret.”

Lois agreed. “Clark has always given you this, like, moonstruck look whenever he thinks you’re not looking. It was sooo obvious.”

Clark was almost sweating now, his face going a deeper shade of red. You took pity on him.

“Alright, Nancy Drew. Who is gonna come with me to get a drink?”

Naturally, Cat and Lois flung to your side. Clark gave you a gentle squeeze in thanks and let you go. You made a mental note to bring this up later.

One hour and two drinks later, you began to feel warm and gooey - a pleasant warmth spreading its way from your lower abdomen around your body. Clark had hardly gone five minutes without approaching you and peppering you with kisses. 

You caught his eye from the couch opposite. He looked so handsome, the first two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone so you could see just a hint of his large, tanned chest. He was leaning forward, forearms on his thighs, still laughing at a joke some intern from the office made.

Carefully, you uncrossed your legs and - just for a split-second - tilted them open slightly before crossing the other leg again.

You knew he had caught sight of the lace white panties beneath. The smile slipped instantly from his face. His breath caught, and he was almost doubled over in agony. He leaned forward more in what you could only assume was an attempt to hide his excitement.

A tidal wave of desire crashed through you, but you kept your cool, innocently chatting with someone you had never met before - someone from Jimmy's fantasy football league or something?

Yourself and Clark had made amends two weeks ago and you were letting him back into your life as slowly as you could manage while also needing him like an air supply.

You had not yet slept with each other again, however. You had justified it by telling yourself that this was your way of punishing him for stepping out of your life without a word. But a bigger part of you knew, for absolute certainty, that you were playing a game. You wanted to see just how far you could push him before he burst.

You could tell he was close. He frayed at the seams a little bit every time you swung your leg around his waist and sat directly on his cock, kissing him slowly and intimately, before quickly hopping off him with an innocent “G’night!”

But Clark - ever the gentleman - never pushed it. Probably felt he deserved it.

He did, your mind added unkindly.

When you sat on his lap at the dinner table, ass pressing into his pelvis, or when you stripped down to your underwear in front of him a bit slower than you would if you were on your own, you felt the desire rolling off him in waves. He would take a minute to stare at the wall, take a few deep breaths and return his gaze to you as if nothing had happened.

Still, though… you could sense he was close to breaking. 

Jimmy had recruited Lois, Cat and even one or two of his college friends to convince yourself and Clark to join the group on the expedition to the bar. You firmly and resolutely declined.

You had almost been looking forward to girls approaching Clark at the bar so that you could, finally, finally, stake your claim on him. But you had more important plans in mind for Clark tonight.

“When did you guys get so boring?” Jimmy groaned. “Is this gonna be it now that you guys are together - you just never do fun stuff again because you’d prefer to go home and, like, do the laundry or some other domestic shit?”

“I have a feeling they’re not planning to do laundry tonight, Jimmy.” Lois smirked.

Jimmy blanched at that, mouth snapping shut and nose wrinkling in disgust. He didn’t say another word except, “Goodnight and god bless. Get out of my sight.”

When yourself and Clark had gotten changed for sleeping, you waited until he was sat up in bed, pale sheets glowing against his tan skin. He looked angelic, wearing nothing but his black briefs and slutty little glasses.

You stalked over to him, watching him watch you. You were wearing an oversized gimmicky superman t-shirt, bought for him as a joke, and the same white panties you had been wearing earlier. His Adams apple bobbed up and down as you clambered onto his lap, feeling incredibly small pressed against him.

You trailed a finger over his biceps, loving how the swollen muscles felt on your skin. You traced your fingertips over to his chest and pectoral muscles, watching the skin there jump and dance under your touch. He was so big.

Wrapping your thighs around his waist, you leaned into him innocently, pretending not to notice that your body weight was pressing down hard onto his dick. Clark suppressed a hiss, gripping your hips under your t-shirt with bruising strength. He instinctively pulled you closer.

You gave him those innocent, doelike eyes that you knew made him hot under the collar and he flushed, mouth opening just slightly.

You brushed a thumb over his parted lips, resisting the urge to slip it inside to rest on his tongue, and leaned in. You kissed him slowly, but it was messy from the get-go. Clark must have been close to drooling at the eyes you were making at him - his mouth was sloppy and wet and so so soft against yours. You felt how bad he wanted you - he put every ounce of it into that kiss. 

His dick had been hard before you had even changed - you’re not sure it had gone soft since you teased him at the party. You felt it twitch when you playfully nipped his bottom lip with your teeth. He was getting riled up - rubbing his hands up and down your hips, grinding you down on his lap with messy desperation.

You released his mouth from yours with a pop and he looked up at you, dazed. You almost felt bad for what you were about to do - he looked so pretty, his eyes hazy with lust and his lips swollen by the force of yours.

“Night, Clark!” you called innocently, giving him a last quick peck to the lips before scrambling out of his lap. 

Before you could make much progress, however, Clark had caught you by the hips and lifted you back. You smiled up at him, feeling reckless.

“You are so mean.” he whined, nudging at your neck with his nose and pressing soft kisses there. “You know what you’re doing to me.”

You frowned, feigning confusion. “What am I doing?”

You could hear the pout in Clark's voice when he muttered against your mouth, “Killin’ me, baby. I want you so bad. You know I do. Please.”

He looked up then and you saw a frown line delving between his brows, eyes soft and pleading and ruined. You felt yourself get wetter. “I need you like crazy. Been so long. You're so pretty and I love you so much.”

You smiled at him adoringly, moving a stray inky curl out of his face and combing a hand through his hair. Clark's frown line became deeper. He was frantic, trying to explain himself further while you admired him.

“Gotta feel you again. Keep thinking about it.”

“Yeah?” you asked, eyebrows raising. That got your attention.

He nodded. “Every night. Couldn’t even sleep for those three months you were gone. Kept dreaming ‘bout you on me. Woke up with my bedsheets soaked and I would have to jerk off so I could go back to sleep.”

“Poor Clark.” you cooed, stroking your thumb across his warm cheek and feeling the stubble rub your fingertip. You were trying to be patronising but it came out a bit too breathy. Truthfully, your mouth was watering.

He nodded solemnly. “I missed you so much. I want you so bad. Please, honey. Please?”

You giggled. “Why didn’t you just say sooner, baby?”

Clark was struck by lightning, looking at you in utter astonishment. He didn't even know that had been a possibility. 

“You're so mean.” he repeated, pressing his messy mouth back to your neck and biting down hard.

“I’m about to let you fuck me, Clark. That's not very mean, is it?”

He groaned and you felt it rumble through your neck. You felt lightheaded and lovestruck at this mountain of a man worshipping you.

You put both hands on his chest, feeling the mounds of pectoral muscles flex under your touch, and rocked your hips back and forth. Noise after noise was spilling from Clark's lips, his head bent low to rest on your shoulder as he gripped your hips once again and moved you back and forth at his own pace. 

You were already wet, dripping right onto his black briefs until they were see-through, but Clark's unearthly strength - the way he could move your entire body with no effort whatsoever - had you dripping.

You gave up power to Clark and let him move you at the pace he desired. He lifted the stupid t-shirt above your head and tossed it to the floor, squeezing you with a mouth-watering grip. He pressed his lips to both breasts, sucking and kissing. You could feel the head of his cock knocking against your clit through two layers of underwear and you saw stars.

Everything with Clark was just more. You felt more, you said more, you loved more. When you were with him, you forgot about the existence of any other man you had ever been with. 

Because Clark was kinder. He was hotter. He was more responsible. And he was, of course, much better in bed. By a massive margin.

It wasn’t just his size, though that helped. You had never been so naturally in tune with someone else’s body - knew what they needed just from looking at them. And had definitely never had anyone know your body the way Clark did.

Every time the two of you messed around, you could almost see Clark, brows pulled together and tongue ever-so-slightly peeking out, making note of your reactions. What your body liked and what it didn’t. And all that work paid off - it was as if he had cheat codes to your body that nobody else had, knowing exactly what to do and how to do it in order to get the best reaction out of you.

All this to say, when Clark quickly but carefully pulled both of your underwear to the side, rubbed the swollen head of his cock down hard on your clit and bounced you around in that way he knew you liked - you screamed. 

“I think you missed this too, didn’t you baby?” Clark asked, taking full advantage of the way you were struck dumb from pleasure. “Bet you thought about me like this too. You look so pretty right now- gosh.”

Clark began to rub your slick folds over his cock and, shit, you knew it was big but you didn’t remember it being that big.

Clark's hands were on your ass, pushing and gripping and squeezing. His hips were jerking upwards. The way your clit was rubbing against him was almost as sinful as how he looked - eyes clenched shut, head thrown back and sweating.

His tip brushed your hole lightly, accidentally dipping in less than a half inch deep. The two of you tensed up and your eyes met. Clark, slowly, carefully pressed deeper, ever so slightly, and you gasped.

“Please can I put it in?” he asked, pouting at you so prettily.

You wanted him so badly. You wanted to feel that familiar stretch you had been dreaming about every day for the last three-and-a-bit months - sorry, Peter - but you played the game anyway.

“I don't know, Clark." You bit your lip. “Aren’t we moving a bit fast? We’ve only been together two weeks.”

“Two weeks!” Clark gaped at you. “You’ve been mine for much longer than two weeks, sweetheart.”

“Have I?” you asked sweetly, taking him just another half-inch.

Clark’s head was rolling back. He was slurring “Please, baby. You’re mine. Always have been. Let me fill you.”

You smiled. “When you ask so nicely…”

You had planned to sink down on him completely. But when you stopped, feeling full to the brim, you looked down to see you had only taken him just about half-way. Clark whined filthily, laser focus on where you were taking him. 

“Can’t do it, Clark.” you moaned, losing all semblance of control. “’s too big.”

He was looking at you with a sort of wonder. Like he couldn’t believe you were real and existed and were sitting on his cock.

“You can take it, sweetheart.” he assured you, slightly condescending. “Just been a long time since you’ve taken a dick this big, hasn’t it? Didn’t even have my fingers first to stretch you out, poor thing.”

Clark was gently sinking your hips down further and further, pressing in so deep you could feel him in your stomach - it felt like it shouldn’t have been possible.

When he bottomed out, you were a mess, babbling and moaning and crying. You couldn’t think when he was this deep inside you. Placing both hands on his abs, you stilled, getting used to the stretch.

Clark was marvelling at how you were taking him with wide eyes and awe.

“Missed this so much.” he almost cried. “Never gonna let you go again. Gonna wrap you around me like this every single day. Never gonna let you off my cock. Wanna stay like this forever, you sitting pretty on my lap, filled with my cock.. please, baby.”

He was ranting now, every word adding a rush of heat to your core. You were making a sticky mess on the coarse black hairs that dusted his groin. The stretch inside you went from too much to not enough the more you watched him whine and moan and writhe around desperately.

When you began to move, slowly and tentatively, Clark was astonished. He still couldn’t tear his eyes from the way he was stuffing your pussy, but every now and then his eyes would flick to your face, taking in the cockdrunk pleasure playing its way out there.

He was so deep and thick inside you, it felt almost unreal. His tip was kissing that wonderful spot deep inside you that made you turn to goo - the one nothing else could reach except Clark’s cock. The need for him was building in you and you increased your pace, grinding down even harder on him. Clark made a needy choked sound at the back of his throat.

“Look at that, baby, you didn’t even think you could take all of me and now you’re riding it like it’s yours.”

“It is mine.” you shot back snootily.

“Brat.” Clark smirked, jerking his hips up slightly in time with your rhythm.

“Clark.” you choked out. “Not fair- oh!”

Clark was in charge now, holding you and fucking into you. You were in a state of perpetual bliss - a pliant, messy wreck.

How did you survive, holding out on him for those two weeks? You didn’t know if you could ever last a day without having him now that you got a taste of him again - now that you knew he was completely and truly yours.

Clark's hand reached out, lightning-fast, and began to stroke loving patterns on your clit, just the way you liked. You couldn’t help the punched-out groan that fell from your lips.

You knew he was close when he did this. He had an obsession with the two of you coming at the same time and your clit was the fastest way to get you there.

“Not gonna last long.” he panted. “You feel too good. Missed you too much. Please, baby- I love you so much, sweet girl.”

If you had been thinking any clearer, you might have actually been embarrassed to admit that it was Clark's cheesy confession that sent you over the edge. You grinded down hard - felt Clark twitch inside you before spilling inside. Your back arched while you squeezed and clenched around him, pleasure so great it was almost agony spilling out from you.

Clark was looking at you the whole time like he had discovered a whole new religion, mouth slightly parted and face flushed while he rode the last waves of his own climax.

When you began to slump in exhausted ecstasy, last whimperings falling from your lips, Clark pulled out from you as gently as he could and held you against his chest, pressing a small, wet kiss to your shoulder.

“Want to hold you like this forever.” he whispered.

You’re not supposed to be here. Not in this part of the reef, not beyond the kelp wall, and certainly not inside the old wrecked cave with the split hull of a ship jutting out from the rock like broken teeth.

You grinned, darting down through the broken planks. Your fingers trailed over strange objects half-buried in the sand: cups of dulled silver, beads of glass, a rusted blade. Treasures. Human treasures.

You gathered what you could into the woven bag slung at your hip. But one thing caught your eye, glinting faintly in a shaft of moonlight that pierced the waves.

A chain. Thin, tangled, half-buried in silt. You dug it free, heart pounding, and found a small plate dangling at the end. The letters etched into it were strange, foreign, but you traced them carefully all the same.

James B. Barnes.

You pressed the tag to your chest, curious at the way the cool metal seemed to echo with a heartbeat not your own.

If you were caught, you’d be dragged back to the palace, scolded, maybe worse. But staring at the artifact in your hands, you knew you’d come back tomorrow. And the next night. And the next.

Because collecting these artifacts made it feel like the world above the waves wasn't so far away.

You darted through narrow tunnels of stone until the sea opened into your hidden grotto, your sanctuary.

Every ledge glittered with stolen wonders: tarnished forks, broken lanterns, colorful shards of glass polished smooth by the tide. Your collection sparkled in the dim blue light filtering from the cracks above.

You tucked the newest find—a thin chain with its curious etched plate—onto the highest shelf, as though that made it more important than all the rest. You whispered the strange words, testing the shape of them on your tongue. They meant nothing, but somehow they felt like more than all the treasures you’d collected before.

Then you hear them. Voices. Laughter. The swish of fast tails. Your sisters.

“Oh no,” you whisper, trying to rearrange a curtain of seaweed to hide your grotto’s entrance, but it’s too late. They burst in like a storm, all limbs and noise and glittering teeth.

“We knew it,” Kate laughs, flipping upside down in the water. “She’s here with her trinkets.”

“Are you talking to statues again?” Yelena says with a giggle, poking at one of the old compasses. “Ooh, what’s this? Another broken time spinner?”

You grab it before she can toss it. “It’s a watch,” you mutter. “It tells time.” They exchange a look and burst into laughter again.

“Tell time for what? How long it takes a human to drown?” Yelena snorts.

You scowl. “They’re not all like that.” You look at the big statue at the center of your grotto, one you dragged through sand and current a few moons ago after a particularly gnarly storm that was partially your fault. It was the last time you pranked your father with sea urchins, that's for sure.

“No,” Kate says, eyes glittering. “Just the ones who hunt us, dump trash into our waters, destroy reefs, and build those big wooden boxes that sink during storms—those humans?”

Your grip tightens around the old watch. “Some of them are different.”

Your sisters circle lazily, light current from their swimming pushing you to float right against the chest of the statue, teasing but not cruel. Not really. This is a game they’ve played your whole life. “Let me guess,” Yelena purrs, “you’re still dreaming about your human prince? The one with the strong arms and the sad eyes and the big—”

“Stop!” you laugh, flicking your tail hard enough to send a little bit of pressure through the water at them. “You’re horrible.”

“He’s not real, you know,” Kate says, but her voice softens. “No human prince is going to come sweeping into the sea to rescue a little coral-brained romantic like you.”

You glance at your collection—at the chipped music box that still plays a wobbly lullaby, the feathered quill encased in glass, the portrait of a man with a beard and stormy eyes who looks a little bit like how you imagine him.

You weren’t supposed to want this. You weren’t supposed to crave the surface. But every artifact told a story, and tonight you wondered — not for the first time — if one of those stories could be yours.

The tide was low. The sky painted in lavender streaks and salted gold, the moon beginning to rise like a silent promise over the distant cliffs. Prince James Buchanan Barnes walked along the shore with his boots in one hand and the salt wind in his hair, kicking sand lightly as he walked.

He wasn’t supposed to be here. Not this late, not without guards. Not with the weight of the crown looming closer each day. But he came anyway.

Steve trailed behind him, arms crossed over his chest, one of the only people left who could speak to him without ceremony or title. “You ever gonna tell me what you’re looking for out here?” Steve asked. "You've been disappearing into the shore every night for weeks now."

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the surf like it might reveal something. Like it owed him something. “I don’t know,” he murmured finally. “Peace, maybe.”

Steve’s boots crunched in the wet sand beside him. “You can't find peace in wine, the best food, and the prettiest women begging to be let in your chamber at the palace?”

Bucky huffed a dry laugh, then shook his head. “I feel… like I can breathe out here.” He turned, eyes skimming the waves as they rolled toward the shore. “I feel like I’m always performing in there,” he said, gesturing vaguely toward the cliffs that cradled the castle in stone. “Like I have to be someone I’m not. But when I’m out here... I can think.”

“And what are you thinking about?” Steve asked gently.

Bucky hesitated. His jaw tensed, then relaxed. “That maybe I don’t belong anywhere. That maybe I’m not enough — for the court, the kingdom, the war council. For any of it.” Steve didn’t interrupt. Just let him speak.

Bucky exhaled, dragging his fingers through his dark hair. “I feel… alone,” he admitted, softer now. “Even when I’m surrounded by people. Even when I’m in a room full of nobles and soldiers and advisors.” His voice dropped to almost nothing. “Especially then.”

He looked back at the waves. “But when I’m near the water... it’s like something settles in me. Like something out there understands.”

You were alone, nestled behind a jagged cluster of rocks, nothing above the surface besides your shoulders, neck, and face. Wet hair floating behind you, your fingers gripping a bed of mossy stone, your eyes fixed on the shoreline.

And on him.

Your cheek rested on your forearms, now crossed on the stone, hidden enough from shore that you could stay like this and just look at him pacing until he got tired enough to retreat back behind the walls that divided your worlds.

Gods, was he beautiful.

The hem of his pants was pulled up around his calves, his vest was undone, as was the shirt under it, letting his tanned chest be bathed in moonlight. His hair fell on his face every time he looked down, and when he looked up he flickered it back over his broad shoulders. 

You were close enough to see the way his lips moved as he talked to the blond one beside him—Steve, you’d learned from surface gossip and one of your better-eavesdropping sisters. Their voices didn’t carry over the waves, not clearly, but you caught fragments. Words like alone, lost, don’t belong.

It was all very mysterious and a little bit sad, which made you sigh like a maiden in a ballad, resting your chin on the barnacled stone with a dreamy smile on your face. 

You watched as he paused at the shoreline, staring out at the sea as if you were the one missing piece in his princely little life. Which, obviously, you were.

You held your breath, as though breathing too loudly might give you away.

And then—

“Gods, you’re pathetic.”

You yelp, spinning around in the water so fast that your tail hits the rock. A sharp sting slices through your fin, but you bite it back.

“Yelena!” you hiss, eyes wide. “What are you doing here?!”

She’s floating just behind you, grinning smugly, her arms crossed over her chest and her tail lazily flicking against the current.

“I followed you,” she says, all syrupy sweetness. “You’re not exactly stealthy when you sigh like a lovesick dolphin every five minutes.” She got closer and made you scoot over so she could see what you saw, both of you just peeking around the rocks now to make sure the two humans didn't hear you.

“He’s even sadder up close,” Yelena mutters beside you, following your line of sight. “You sure you want that?” You ignore her. “Why are you watching him again?” she asks, softer this time. “You know it’s dangerous.”

You press your cheek to the cool rock, frowning, watching as Bucky stops to look out at the sea. The wind plays with the hem of his shirt. He looks so tired. So real. You just want to reach out and touch his skin. 

You smiled dreamily. “Isn’t he beautiful?”

The sea outside was alive with noise—guards patrolling, schools of fish darting past—but in your grotto, all was still. Here, tucked deep in rock and coral, time belonged to you.

And to him.

The statue loomed from its place of honor, shadowed but magnificent. The marble face was softened by the water, but you could still see him in every line—the set of his jaw, the broadness of his shoulders, the proud tilt of his head.

You circled him slowly, your fingers trailing along the cold stone of his arm. “You should be heavier,” you murmured, half to yourself.

“Ohhh, listen to her! Already talking to him like he’s her betrothed. This is love, I tell you. Star-crossed, storm-born, fate-bound love!” Ava, one of your oldest sisters, gushed from her place where she was brushing her hair, perched on a stone. 

Her romantic nature was only second to yours. 

Yelena rolled her eyes, “Fate-bound trouble,” she swam closer. “If father knew you’d dragged this into the grotto? If he knew you touched a human—”

You waved her off, "He'll never know." pressing closer to the statue’s chest. The stone was cool, but you imagined the warmth you’d feel beneath your palm on the shore. Slowly, daringly, you let your lips brush against the marble jaw. “He'd be warm,” you whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “So warm.”

“You’d hold me differently, if you were flesh,” you murmured, just to yourself. “You’d burn like I do when I think of you.”

“Oh, little sister, it’s written all over your face. You’re smitten!”

“I am not!” But even as you said it, your mind betrayed you with the memory of Bucky’s voice, the curve of his lips. “I’m not,” you whispered, weaker now.

But then—the water shifted. Darkened. A deep voice rolled through the current, heavy as thunder. “You what?”

Your blood ran cold. Slowly, you turned. Your father hovered just beyond the entrance, his trident gleaming, his eyes alight with fury. The currents around him churned, violent and unyielding.

“Father—” you started, but the words died as his shadow loomed closer.

“A human?” His voice cracked like a whip. “After everything I’ve warned you, everything I’ve forbidden—you dare bring their filth into my waters?”

“No—please—” But he was already surging past you, his trident blazing with power. “Father, please!” you begged, darting in front of him. “These are mine, they’re harmless—”

But he barely heard you. With a sweep of his trident, light burst through the water. Your treasures shattered: glass shards spun into sand, silver dulled into nothing, your shelves crumbling into rubble.

“No!” you cried, clutching at broken pieces as they drifted away. “Please, stop!”

And then—his gaze fell on the statue. Bucky’s likeness stood tall in the dim glow, his marble eyes watching silently as though even now he might protect you.

Your father’s rage deepened. “This… thing,” he thundered, “you dare bring him into our world?” Before you could speak, his trident crashed down. The statue split in two, stone splintering, Bucky’s face shattering into nothing.

You screamed, the sound torn raw from your chest, as the pieces drifted past your hands. When the glow of the trident dimmed, your grotto was ruined. Nothing left but shards, dust, and the hollow ache in your heart.

Your father turned, his expression carved from stone. “This ends tonight. You will never see the shore again.” And with that, he left—leaving you in the ruins of your secret world, cradling a broken piece of marble in your trembling hands. 

Your sisters hovered in shock, tails shaking, eyes wide and fearful. You knelt in the rubble, curled around the broken marble fragments like they were the pieces of your own heart.

The storm came on entirely too fast. It didn’t roll in like weather—it ripped. The sky went black like someone had torn out the stars. Thunder cracked through the cliffs like bone snapping. The tide surged upward without warning, swallowing boats where they floated, dragging debris onto shore.

It was the kind of storm sailors feared in stories, the kind that didn’t belong to nature, the kind born from wrath.

Prince James Barnes stood at the prow of his ship, wind whipping through his dark hair. Saltwater sprayed against his face, and the storm bruised the sky black and silver. His crew shouted warnings, scurrying to secure sails, but Bucky only grinned into the chaos, eyes alight with challenge.

“Your Highness!” his first mate cried. “We need to turn back before the storm splits us!”

Bucky shook his head, tightening the leather strap on his arm where the metal gleamed faintly beneath his sleeve. “We hold course. This ship was built for worse than this.” But then thunder cracked, shaking the heavens, and lightning struck the mast with a deafening roar. The wood splintered, flames licking before the rain smothered them.

The ship lurched violently. Crewmen tumbled. And Bucky was thrown hard across the deck, his shoulder slamming against the railing. The sea rose like a hungry mouth. With one last jolt, the ship tilted, and he lost his grip.

Cold water swallowed him whole. For a moment, he kicked furiously, the weight of his boots dragging him deeper. He thrashed, reaching upward—but the surface was too far, the storm too strong.

And then—just before the darkness claimed him—a shadow moved beneath him, swift and strong. Small hands caught his chest, pulling him down instead of up, carrying him somewhere he didn’t understand.

The last thing Bucky saw was a glimmer of a face in the moonlit water, features blurred by the current, a voice humming through the depths like a dream.

Then everything went black.

The storm spat you out onto the sand, waves crashing around your tail as you dragged the heavy man onto the shore. He was heavier than any treasure you’d stolen from the wrecks, his body limp, boots and clothes weighing him down.

Your eyes dragged over him shamelessly—because what was he gonna do, complain? He was unconscious. This was a safe space.

His soaked shirt outlined muscles you didn’t even know humans had. His pants were fitted. And tight. And his boots were huge, which made you stare at other parts of him and question things you didn’t have names for yet.

You slapped your own cheek.

You collapsed beside him, chest heaving, seawater streaming off your hair and skin. He lay there unmoving, his dark hair plastered across his forehead, his lips pale. “Wake up,” you whispered, poking his sternum. “Come on, big guy. Don’t leave me here alone with all these intrusive thoughts.”

And then—a cough. His chest convulsed, seawater spilling from his mouth, followed by a ragged gasp. His eyes fluttered shut again, but he was alive.

Relief coursed through you like a current. You brushed wet strands of hair away from his face, studying him in awe. He was beautiful—sharp jaw, broad shoulders, lashes fanned dark against his skin. So unlike the finned men of your world.

Your heart jumped. You leaned closer, fingers trailing along his cheek, fascinated by the rough stubble there.

“[Y/N]!” a sharp whisper hissed from the shallows. You glanced back to see your sister — waving her arms at you, fins flapping furiously. “What are you doing?! If he wakes—if he sees—you’ll be dragged back in chains! Get in the water, now!”

You ignored her, mesmerized by the rise and fall of the man’s chest, the warmth of his skin beneath your hand.

“Don’t be foolish!” she snapped, his little tail lashing. “He’s dangerous. All of them are. Leave him be before it’s too late!”

But you couldn’t. Not yet. Not when he was here in front of you, the human you’d dreamed of holding in your grotto full of broken artifacts.

“James,” you whispered again, brushing your thumb across his cheekbone. “I’ll see you again." The man’s lashes fluttered, his lips parting on a hoarse breath. You startled, heart hammering.

“Now!” she hissed. “Into the sea!”

With one last lingering touch, you pushed yourself back into the surf. The tide seized you, dragging you beneath the waves, and by the time Bucky's eyes opened—bleary, searching—there was nothing left but the echo of your voice in the storm.

Sand clung to his clothes, seawater pooling beneath him, every muscle aching from the wreck. Bucky groaned, dragging a hand across his face, his lungs still burning from the salt.

Then—sharp barks split the air.

“Rex?” His voice cracked as his big shepherd bounded across the sand, whining frantically, nosing at his chest. The dog’s tongue was warm and insistent, dragging him further into waking.

And then another voice. Familiar.

“James!”

Steve’s boots pounded across the shore, his cloak whipping in the wind. He dropped to his knees, relief flooding his features as he gripped Bucky’s shoulders. “You’re alive. By God, you’re alive.”

Bucky blinked up at him, dazed, half expecting the vision of her face to still be hovering above him. His lips were dry, but the word slipped out anyway:

“Angel.”

Steve frowned. “What?”

“She saved me,” Bucky rasped, clutching weakly at Steve’s arm. “Dark hair… soft voice… she pulled me from the sea.”

Steve glanced at the wreckage still burning in the distance, then back to his friend with concern. “Bucky, no one was here. You must’ve dreamed it.”

But Bucky only shook his head, stubborn even in exhaustion. His dog whined, pressing against his side as Steve helped him upright.

“No dream,” Bucky muttered, his gaze fixed on the waves. “She was real.”

The palace was tense when you returned.

Not stormy—yet—but the kind of eerie quiet that made the sea itself hold its breath. Guards swam stiffly in the halls. Your sisters refused to make eye contact. Even the anemones lining the walls dimmed their glow like they didn’t want to witness what was about to happen.

You barely made it ten feet into the throne chamber before his voice thundered through the water.

“YOU SAVED A HUMAN?!” You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your father stood at the top of the coral steps, trident in hand, surrounded by currents that spun too fast, too sharp. His eyes blazed like moonlight on a storm tide.

“Did I not forbid this?” he growled, voice rising with each word. “Did I not warn you? Did I not say their kind cannot be trusted, that their world is not ours, that no good has ever come from reaching above the surface?”

You opened your mouth, but he wasn’t done.

“You dragged him onto our shore. You exposed yourself. You endangered your sisters. You’ve disgraced this family—”

“I saved his life,” you said firmly. “That’s all. He was drowning.”

“He is human.”

“He was dying!”

“He is human,” he repeated, voice low and cold. “And that is not your concern.”

Your throat tightened.

He didn’t understand. Of course he didn’t. He never saw the way the surface shimmered at night, the way shipwrecks whispered secrets through the tides, the way human voices sounded like music even when they were just shouting.

He didn’t see him.

The man with the sad eyes and the rough hands and the kind of face that made you ache with wanting to know everything he’d ever lost.

“I couldn’t let him drown,” you said quietly.

“That wasn’t your choice to make.”

“And was it yours?” You defied. "The storm only happened because you were mad at me."

Your father took a threatening step down. “And what if he’d seen you? What if he told someone? Do you have any idea what they would do to us?”

“He didn’t see me.” You muttered.

“But he could have—”

“I don’t care!”

Silence.

Your voice cracked as you pushed forward, heart racing now. “I don’t care if he could’ve seen me, or if it was stupid, or if it broke a rule, or all the rules—because I couldn’t just let him die. And—and—”

You stopped.

There it was.

The feeling that had been building since the moment you saw him talking to himself scribbling on his journal all of those moons ago. Since you saw the way his lashes rested against his cheek like he’d been born for softness, not war.

Your voice dropped to a whisper.

“Because I love him.”

Your sisters gasped in sync from somewhere behind a column. Your father stared at you like you’d just said you wanted to marry a sea cucumber.

“You… love him,” he repeated slowly.

You straightened your spine. “Yes.”

“You love a man you’ve spoken zero words to.”

“I’ve heard his words,” you said defensively. “He talks to the sea. It’s romantic.”

“He was probably drunk!”

“He’s sensitive, too!”

He groaned and turned away, dragging a hand down his face. “You are grounded,” he said flatly.

“Again?!”

“Until you regain sanity. No surfacing. No wreck-diving. If I so much as hear you say the word ‘surface’ again—”

“But, daddy!”

“GROUNDED. Go to your reef.”

“I hate it here.” You flung yourself out of the throne room in a whirl of fins, humiliation, and romantic delusion. You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t even touch him like you wanted. But now? You were grounded. You were banned. You were trapped. 

That night, you went to the surface one last time. The prince leaned against the railing of a high balcony, the lamplight behind him catching in his dark hair. His dog lay at his feet, tail wagging lazily as if keeping him company through his restless vigil.

You pressed closer to the rocks, daring the waves to carry you nearer. Your chest ached at the sight of him—alive, whole, breathing. So close, and yet impossibly far.

He sighed, his voice drifting faintly down to you. “I know you’re real.” Your heart stopped. “I felt you,” he continued, running a hand over his face before bracing it against the railing. “Your hands… your voice. You saved me. And I—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

Heat flared in your chest, that dangerous fire you still didn’t understand. You leaned forward, straining to catch every word.

“I sound insane.” he muttered, his lips quirking into a humorless smile. “A prince, talking to the waves like some lovesick boy... I’d trade every jewel in this damned palace just to see you again, though. Just once.”

You wanted to move. Wanted to swim as close to the shore as the water would let you and flail your arms and call out his name. But you didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Above, James leaned heavily against the railing, his voice breaking into the night air. “Angel… wherever you are—come back to me.”

Your throat tightened. All it took was one reckless heartbeat, and you dove back into the dark waters and swam as fast as you could. 

The currents grew cold and strange in the unpatrolled depths, but you didn’t care. You curled into a hollow of black stone, tears of frustration in your eyes. So when the water shifted, colder still, you thought you were alone.

Until you heard her voice.

“My, my,” purred the Sea Witch, her silhouette forming in the gloom. She drifted closer, her tendrils of shadow and hair curling like smoke. “Such a pretty little thing, crying over a human. Tell me, child—do you want him?”

You startled, clutching the marble shard tighter. “What do you mean?”

Her lips curved. “Don’t play coy. You saved him, you watched him, you dreamed of his touch. You want legs to walk beside him. Arms to hold him. A mouth to kiss him.”

Your face burned, your throat tight. “I can’t—my father—”

“Your father has destroyed what you love,” she cut in, her voice low and smooth. “But I can give it back. I can give you him.”

Your heart thudded painfully. “How?”

“Trade.” She slithered closer, her eyes gleaming. “Your voice—for legs. You’ll rise from the sea, beautiful and silent. If he loves you before the next moon wanes, you’ll remain with him. If not… the sea will reclaim you.”

Your breath hitched, the fire in your chest sparking at the thought of his arms around you. “My… voice?”

The witch’s grin sharpened. “Such a small thing, for everything you’ve ever wanted.”

You hesitated—then closed your eyes, clutching the shard of marble one last time. “Yes. I’ll do it.”

The witch’s laughter coiled around you, and suddenly, pain split through your chest. A burning, wrenching pull tore the song from your throat. You tried to scream, but nothing came out—only bubbles streaming upward as darkness rushed in.

The last thing you saw was her grin, and the flare of her magic.

You woke to warmth.

Sand beneath your palms, the sun blazed against your damp skin. Your lungs seized, then dragged in sweet, sharp, light air. It was blinding, really, and you weren't entirely sure why your eyes were that much more sensitive. 

You tried rolling over and notices part of the weight you usually had on your lower half wasn't there anymore. And when you looked down, a gasp left your lips. 

Your tail was gone. 

The bi— witch really did it. 

In its place were two long, definitely not tanned legs sprawled clumsily in the surf, bare and trembling. Every nerve screamed unfamiliar sensations of rubbing on the sand. You whimpered silently, wiggling your toes and digging them deeper in the coarse grains, dragging yourself further up the sand, while the waves pulling at you like they wanted you back.

But you pressed forward, shaking, helpless, until you collapsed further on the beach. Your throat ached raw, thirsty from all the saltwater you probably ingested on the way up, unconscious.

Above you, gulls wheeled. The castle you looked at longinly for so long loomed on the cliffs, closer than ever.

The sun was lowering, painting the waves in molten gold. You lay tangled in the surf, every breath a battle, your new legs trembling with every futile push against the ground.

Was he there? You thought.

Was he as close as just on the other side of these stone walls?

Was he even going to spare you a second glance? I mean, you could just not be hi—

A sharp bark split the quiet.

You startled just as an enormous sheepdog barreled across the beach, shaggy fur flying, paws thundering over the wet sand. He skidded to a stop in front of you, nose pressing against your shoulder with frantic whines. His tail wagged so hard his whole body shook with it, and before you could even flinch, his warm tongue was dragging against your wrist, slobbering all over you.

You gave the faintest laugh—silent, breathless, but real.

“Rex!”

Your heart lurched at the voice. Deep, strong, achingly familiar, belonging to the one and only James Buchanan Barnes.

And then he was there.

The man you’d pulled from the storm. The one whose name you whispered against stone lips in your grotto. The prince you heard vent more times than you could count, listening to all of his problems and all his heart's desires.

But he didn't know that. 

Bucky's boots sank into the wet sand as he sprinted toward you, the orange and yellow from the sunset catching in his dark hair.

He dropped to his knees beside you, his breath a little ragged from running. His blue eyes locked onto yours, wide and stunned, almost like he knew you from somewhere but couldn't quite place you. "Hi,” he breathed. "I'm James. Bucky." He extended his hand to hold yours and bring your knuckles to his lips.

You wanted to tell him—yes, it was me, I saved you—but when your lips parted, nothing came out. Just silence, your throat burning.

She wasn't kidding about the voice part either, huh?

He frowned, brushing damp strands of hair from your face with gentle fingers. “You can’t… talk?”

You shook your head faintly, panic sparking in your chest.

His expression softened, twisting with something you didn’t understand. “You’re, uh,” he whispered, wonder breaking across his face, at the same time he realized you were indeed very, very naked. “God, you’re real.” 

If you weren't so mesmerized by finally being able to feel the heat of his skin against yours, even for a second, you'd be self conscious of the way his eyes raked your frame up and down. 

Rex barked happily, pressing himself against the side of your leg as if to prove it. His nose nudged your arm until your palm rested on his head again, and your lips curved into a tiny smile despite the ache in your chest.

Bucky's breath hitched. He took off his cloak, leaving him in the flowy linen undershirt. "Here.” His gaze lingered, heavy and searching. “We can, uh— we can get you some clothes.”

You didn’t have the strength to protest when he wrapped it carefully around your trembling body. The weight of it was warm, steadying, and it smelled like him.

And when he slid an arm beneath your knees and lifted you, you clung to him without thinking.

“Don’t be afraid,” he murmured, his voice calm and certain against the rush of the waves. “You’re safe now. I’ll keep you safe.”

And as Rex bounded at your heels, you pressed your face into his chest, your silent little heart screaming all the words you couldn’t speak.

“She’s not a stray, Buck.”

Steve’s voice was patient, if a little amused, as he leaned against the edge of the balcony railing, arms crossed over his chest. The sea stretched out behind him, calm for once, a rare shimmer of peace on the horizon. The setting sun bathed the stone walls of the palace in a honeyed glow.

Bucky didn't look up.

He sat slouched in one of the cushioned chairs in his chamber, elbows on his knees, his damp hair still tousled from the sea breeze. His boots were discarded nearby, as were the clothes he wore that morning, now wet and salty from the sea. 

Down the hall, servants whispered about the silent girl sleeping in the prince’s spare chamber—wrapped in one of his cloaks, apparently incapable of speech, and very much acting like this was her first day in the human world, for some odd reason.

“I know she’s not a stray,” Bucky muttered.

“But you brought her in,” Steve said, raising a brow. “From the beach. Not speaking. Naked. Sounds like something out of a bard’s tale.”

“She was hurt,” Bucky's voice was a little more defensive than he intended to, glaring up at him. “Exhausted. She could barely walk.”

“I’m not judging.” Steve’s hands lifted in mock surrender, a teasing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just... wondering what makes you so sure she’s not dangerous.”

Bucky scoffed. “Is that seriously your worry?” Bucky looked at the horizon and back at Steve. "She's mute and naked, Steve. If anything, she's the one needing protection from whatever creeps roam this world."

"You mean you?" Steve teased. 

Bucky glared at him playfully. "Watch it." He ran a hand over his face, exhaling hard. “I don’t know, alright? I don’t know why I’m doing this. I saw her, and—she looked at me like she knew me.”

Steve tilted his head.

“She was scared, but not... not of me. Like she trusted me, even before I said a word.” He leaned back, head tipping against the chair. “And when I touched her—her hand was ice cold, Steve, like she’d just been dragged out of a wreck—and she smiled. Barely. But it was there.”

Steve’s brow furrowed. “You sure it’s not the head injury talking?”

Bucky gave him a look.

“Alright, alright.” Steve chuckled, stepping closer. “She’s beautiful, she’s mysterious, she washed up at your feet like a gift from the sea—and now you're completely out of your depth.”

“I’m not—” Bucky started, then sighed, rubbing his temples. “Okay. Maybe a little.”

Steve’s grin widened. “Bucky. You’re acting like you’re in love.”

Bucky opened his mouth to protest—and paused.

Because that shouldn’t sting.

But it did.

He swallowed, thinking of your eyes—how they searched his face, drinking him in like it was the first and last time. The way you held onto him, trembling but trusting, completely mute and vulnerable in his arms.

How your smile, even silent and weak, had nearly gutted him. “…I don’t even know her name,” he whispered.

Steve’s smile softened. “Maybe she’ll tell you.”

“She can’t.” Bucky looked up at him. “She hasn’t said a word.”

“Then maybe she’s waiting for the right moment,” Steve replied gently. “Give her time. Let her show you who she is.”

He had no idea you were the one who’d pulled him from the waves. How could he? He remembered his guardian angel of the sea talking him back to life, and it clearly couldn't have been you, could it?

The sun spilled over the sea one last time as start started to glitter in the sky in the late afternoon through the high windows of the palace’s spare chamber, turning the marble floors into pools of sprakling glass. 

“You’re really not from around here, huh?”

Natasha stood in the center of the room with a hand on her hip, watching as you held a wooden hairbrush like it was a weapon. Your brow furrowed, your head tilted as you poked yourself in the cheek with the bristles.

“This hurts,” you mouthed silently, holding it out to her in accusation.

“It’s a brush,” she said, taking it gently. “You use it on your hair, not your face.”

You blinked. Then looked at her wild red waves. Then at your own damp, tangled curls. Then winced in realization.

Salt water was much better for your hair when it was constantly wet. 

She smirked. “Yeah. You’re gonna hate it.”

Nat turned back to the bed where a neat line of folded dresses had been laid out—soft linens, simple cottons, all things a “guest” of the palace might wear. She didn’t know where Bucky found you, or why you couldn’t speak, but she had enough sense to know you weren’t dangerous.

Just… a little weird. But in a cute way.

“You’ve got a good figure, at least,” she said, holding up a lavender dress with puffed sleeves and soft laces. “Let’s start with this.”

You reached out for it, curious fingers running over the fabric. Your eyes lit up.

“Ooh,” you mouthed soundlessly, pulling the dress to your face and rubbing your cheek on it like a cat.

Nat laughed. “Okay, we’re gonna work on the dignity part later.”

It took a few attempts to get you into the thing. Sleeves? Confusing. Ties? Absolutely baffling.

Eventually, with some teamwork and a bit of dramatic sighing, the dress was on. You spun once, letting the skirt billow around your legs, delighted by how it moved with you. Nat couldn’t help but smile.

“You’re like a puppy,” she said. “A really pretty, weirdly hot puppy.”

You gestured to the vanity next—eyes darting over the unfamiliar items like it was treasure. An eyelash curler piqued your interest, and you picked it up and immediately pretended to use as tongs.

“Nope.” Nat plucked it away before you pinched your own nose off. “That one’s dangerous.”

You pointed to the lipstick next and made a questioning face.

“That one,” Nat grinned, twisting the tube up so the color peeked out, “is magic.”

She dabbed some on your lips, and you blinked, looking in the mirror with awe. Your fingers touched your mouth like you weren’t sure the color was real.

You grinned at her in silent thanks.

“I still don’t know who you are,” Nat said, brushing your hair back and tying it with a ribbon, “but anyone who makes Bucky Barnes act like a stunned teenager probably isn’t all bad.”

She stood, brushing off her hands, and nodded toward the door. “C’mon. Let’s go find him before he starts brooding again.”

You followed her out, the small heels on your feet made it harder to look normal as you tried to figure out how to walk in them properly, arms still swinging at your sides like a deer in a princess costume.

Nat chuckled, holding the door open. “We’ll work on that, too.”

The grand dining hall of the palace was candlelit and echoing, the sky outside now a deep indigo as the warm breeze came through the open windows. At the long, polished table, five plates gleamed beneath silver domes, and five seats were filled—though only one occupant sat stiff as a board, wide-eyed, and very clearly out of her depth.

You.

The dress was soft but chafy against your skin due to unfamiliarity, the laces were too tight, and shoes were squeezing your newly gifted feet, and you felt the ribbon pull at your hair to tightly. 

You were perched on the seat to the left of Bucky, who sat at the head of the table, looking as good as the first day you saw him roam the beach talking to the ocean like a tortured poet. Prince James Barnes, heir to the throne, and the reason you had legs, a soul-aching crush, and zero voice.

“You alright?” Bucky murmured, leaning toward you with an amused smile.

You nodded way too hard.

Steve sat across from you, trying very hard not to laugh as he watched you attempt to butter your roll… with the handle of the knife.

“That’s the wrong end, sweetheart,” Nat murmured helpfully from your left, her own plate untouched as she observed you like one might a nervous stray kitten trying out a new toy for the first time. 

You blinked. Looked at the knife. Flipped it. Beamed.

Bucky chuckled quietly beside you, then reached out without thinking to lay your cloth napkin on your lap from where it sat by your plate. “Here. You’ll want this.”

Your cheeks burned. You felt like a kid, embarrassed you were quite literally a fish out of water, out of your element playing dress up with someone you didn't even know actually wanted you. 

Sam raised a brow, sitting beside Steve. “So,” he said, cutting into his roasted duck, “where exactly did you find this one, Buck?”

Bucky didn’t even look up. “She was on the beach. Injured. I told you.”

“You told me,” Sam agreed. “Didn’t explain.”

“She’s staying in the spare wing until we figure out who she is,” Steve added mildly, chewing thoughtfully. “Still doesn’t speak.”

“Does she understand us?” Sam asked, giving you a skeptical glance.

You straightened up, nodded quickly, and gave a thumbs-up for good measure, delighting yourself on your newly found true love: salted butter.

Nat snorted into her wine. Bucky hid a smile behind his hand. “She understands just fine. She’s been reading and getting accustomed to the palace all day.”

“She’s got spirit.” Steve said kindly, watching you poke your asparagus suspiciously. 

Sam nodded in agreement. “You’ve definitely had worse dinner guests.”

You looked up hopefully—maybe someone got it. Sam winked. You liked him immediately.

The conversation drifted—court politics, trade negotiations, upcoming festivals—and you listened quietly, sipping your water and watching everyone speak like it was the most fascinating performance you’d ever seen.

Your soft heels tapped delicately against the marble floor, the lavender dress fluttering around your calves as Bucky led you back toward your chamber, walking beside you with his hands tucked behind his back.

You watched the way his brows pulled together ever so slightly as he glanced down at you. The way his chest rose and fell just a little deeper than usual, like something was swirling in him just beneath the surface.

“You held your own back there,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Even with Nat grilling you. That tart in Sam’s wine was pretty funny.”

You looked down, blush spreading up to the apples of your cheeks. You hadn't meant for that to happen, but forks were tricky and the tart crust wasn't nearly as forgiving as some of the foods you'd had. 

He laughed, warm and low in his throat. “I mean it. You made an impression.”

Your lips curved up. You liked his laugh. You liked him. Everything about him. His voice, his scent, how broad his shoulders were and the patch of hair that was always visible on his chest, since he seemed to absolutely despise shirts that made him feel claustrophobic. 

He paused outside the door to your chambers.

The silence wrapped around the two of you like velvet, soft and heavy and humming with unspoken things. 

“I was thinking,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “tomorrow, if you’re up for it… we could go into town.”

Your eyes lit up immediately. Your hands flew up in excited gestures, nodding quickly, stepping closer, barely stopping yourself from grabbing his arm.

He smiled wider at your reaction. “There’s a dressmaker in the market district. You’d love her. She’s a little nuts—swears fabric can talk to her—but I figured you could pick something yourself. Something that feels more like… you.”

You melted.

“But only if you want to,” he added quickly, as if nervous.

You nodded again, so hard your ribbon slipped a little from your hair, strands of hair falling to frame you face. 

“And there’s this bakery,” he went on, warming to your enthusiasm, “right on the corner by the fountain. I used to sneak out just to go there when I was a kid. They have these sweet buns—glazed, warm, dripping in cinnamon. They're dream worthy.”

Your smile got wider and his gaze lingered on you then. Quiet, gentle, almost something a little stunned in his expression, like he couldn’t believe you were real.

For a second, the air shifted.

His hand almost lifted. Almost reached out to touch a strand of your hair. His fingers hovered near your jaw. His eyes dropped—lips parting just barely—and you thought he was going to kiss you.

Pretty easy true love's kiss, if anyone asked you. 

You tilted your chin up, your breath caught in anticipation. And Bucky, ever the gentleman he is, stepped back. 

“I’ll have someone come get you after breakfast,” he said, clearing his throat. “Get some rest.”

Oh.

Your smile faltered just slightly, not enough for him to notice, but enough for you to feel. You gave a small nod. A quiet goodbye.

His smile was soft, kind, and then he turned and walked away down the hall, the hem of his dark jacket sweeping the floor behind him.

You lingered in the doorway, biting your lip, your fingers lightly resting on the edge of the frame, watching until he disappeared around the corner.

The morning sun was already warm by the time the palace carriage reached the edge of the village. Birds chirped overhead, the air thick with the scent of fresh bread, flowers, and the faint tang of sea salt carried on the wind.

You clutched the edge of your seat, practically vibrating with excitement. Your nose was almost pressed to the glass as you watched people bustle about, children dart between stalls, and merchants call out their wares like a symphony of chaos.

“You’d think she’s never been to a market,” Nat muttered with amusement, arms folded, lounging on the opposite seat.

Bucky grinned, resting his elbow on the windowsill as he looked at you.

The moment the carriage door opened, you didn’t walk—you bounded. Nat called after you, “Whoa, slow down, Bambi!” but you were already halfway to the nearest flower cart, eyes wide as saucers.

Bucky jogged after you with an apologetic nod to the driver. “She’s enthusiastic.”

“That’s one word for it,” Nat said, following with an exaggerated sigh.

Colors, scents, voices — it was all too much and not enough. You flitted from one stall to the next, poking, touching, smelling everything like it was treasure. Nat kept grabbing your elbow just in time to keep you from knocking over displays or getting swindled by charming cheese vendors.

Bucky trailed behind you with his arms full of things you’d silently insisted on carrying for you: ribbons, a little wooden trinket shaped like a dolphin, a bread roll you tried to pay for with sea glass before Nat slipped the vendor a coin.

“You can’t just smile at people and expect free things,” she scolded with a grin. You tilted your head and smiled even harder while Bucky bit back a laugh.

You stopped at a stall with dresses next, your fingers grazing the flowing fabrics, all different and new sensations at your fingertips, holding one up to your frame and spinning slightly. It was a soft seafoam green silk with a sparkling tulle layer over it, a color that shimmered faintly in the sun.

Bucky watched you twirl, his heart stuttering. “She looks like she belongs in that.” he murmured, mostly to himself.

Nat raised a brow. “Careful, your highness. You’re staring.” She smirked. 

“I’m observing,” he replied quickly. Then, quieter, kept talking. “...shut up.”

The seamstress came over, asked for your preferences. You blinked at her helplessly, fingers fluttering toward your throat. Nat stepped in, speaking softly to the vendor while you held Bucky’s gaze like you were asking him silently, Do you like this one?

He gave you the faintest nod and that dazzling smile. “It’s perfect.”

Later, you found the bakery.

Oh, the bakery.

Bucky barely had time to say, a word before you were pressed to the window, eyes wide at the rows of golden pastries dusted with sugar and glazed with citrus. The baker inside jumped slightly when he saw your face mashed to the glass, then laughed as Nat pulled you gently back by the shoulders.

“Let’s go inside, sweetheart.” she said, sighing again.

You left with a paper-wrapped bun in each hand and sugar on your lips. Bucky took one look at you and, without thinking, wiped the side of your mouth with his thumb.

Both of you froze when you realized what happened. You in glee, and him in a feeling he couldn't name, but it was something along the lines of scolding himself to stay proper in public with a lady he was not betrothed to. 

“Oh,” he murmured, blinking down at you. “S-Sorry. That was—sorry.” But you smiled up at him like he’d just handed you the moon. And he nearly tripped over a crate of apples trying to move on from the moment and walk towards the next vendor.

Nat barked a laugh. “You two are exhausting.”

A few minutes later, you were bent over a display of glass pendants at a vendor’s stall, fingers dancing just above the glittering trinkets, marveling at how each one caught the sunlight, when a tiny tug at your pale pink skirts pulled your attention away.

Startled, you turned and found a little girl staring up at you with wide eyes, a half-eaten pastry clutched in one hand and jam smudged across her chin. She couldn’t have been older than six, her curls bouncing as she tilted her head.

“Hi,” she said, voice bright with curiosity. “You’re really pretty.”

Your lips parted in surprise, and your heart fluttered at the compliment. You dropped into a crouch, tucking your legs awkwardly beneath you, still not entirely used to them, as you offered a shy, silent smile.

The girl stepped closer, eyes roving up and down before stopping on your hair, still soft from Nat’s careful styling that morning, pink ribbons that matched your dress holding your hair out of your face in a half up-half down style, letting it fall behind your back in a cascade that reflected the sunlight. 

“Your hair is sooo long,” she whispered reverently. “And shiny. You look like…” Her eyes lit up. “…a mermaid!”

You gasped, nodding quickly, eyes wide. Yes! You wanted to say. Yes, you’re right! You knew! You finally found someone who knew—someone who saw it. Someone who could tell. You gripped her sticky little hand in both of yours, glowing with something like relief and joy.

Behind you, Nat smirked behind her drink.

The girl’s mother called out from another stall, completely unfazed, “Oh, honey, don’t pester the nice lady.”

The girl beamed, not paying any mind to following instructions. “Do you live in the sea?”

You nodded again, quickly, maybe a bit too eagerly, and Nat snorted. “Oh boy.”

You placed a finger over your lips, wide-eyed, and gave a playful shake of your head, the little girl gasped like you’d just given her the great cosmic truth and clasped her hands together. “I knew it,” she whispered, bouncing in place.

She scampered off toward her mother, shouting something about scales and sea foam and how she had proof now. You stood frozen for a moment, your heart beating a little faster, since now fianlly, Bucky had to know the truth, right?

Your smile slowly dimmed as you looked around and realized… no one else was reacting. No shocked stares, no gasps. Just laughter. Teasing. Nat leaning back against a barrel, eyebrows raised, lips twitching in amusement.

No one believed her. No one believed you.

Of course they didn’t.

Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, disappointment settling heavy like a stone in your stomach. The magic of the moment drifted away, swept up by the wind like sand through your fingers.

“Hey,” Bucky’s voice came from behind you, soft and calming, in a way you heard him talk a couple of times when he thought it was just him and the tide. He’d returned at some point—quiet enough that you hadn’t even noticed.

You turned, swallowing the lump in your throat, schooling your expression into something resembling calm.

He gave you a small, apologetic smile. “We should probably head back,” he said. “The ball tonight… there’ll be guests from the neightboring cities. My mother’s probably already driving everyone crazy.”

You nodded quickly, lips pressing together.

You fell into step beside him, lifting the hem of your dress just enough to keep from tripping over it. You didn’t look back, not even once, though your mind replayed the moment again and again.

You didn't catch the glances Bucky stole your way as he walked by you, you really didn't pay him much mind when he offered his hand to help you inside the carriage either. Your mind was off to wondering how you were going to tell him you were you without having so much as a voice.

The sun was beginning to dip, its warm light slanting through the tall windows of Bucky’s chamber. In the bathroom, the scent of lavender and cedarwood filled the air, steam curling lazily from the surface of the bath sunk into the marble floor, all sorts of beautiful sea-themed patterns etched onto the surface.

Bucky hissed in pleasure when his limbs hit the hot water, muscles relaxing almost immediately. He had his eyes closed, head tipped back against the edge of the tub, hair slicked back, arms resting along the rim. He looked blissfully unaware, muscles loose for once, the weight of the palace momentarily forgotten.

Which is exactly when you walked in.

Barefoot, quiet, and curious.

You’d been looking for him. After you got back from the markets it was mid morning, Nat had told you someone would help you get ready soon, but you hadn’t seen Bucky since and—well, you missed him.

It was already late afternoon, and you liked being near him. You liked the way he looked at you like you were something rare, something worth watching. Liked the way his hand felt in yours and how it fed those insidious little thoughts of what his touch would feel like elsewhere.

You pushed open the door, peeked inside... and paused.

There he was.

Naked. Wet. Glowing like the marble statue come to life in the soft flickering light, water dancing at his waist while steam curled around him making him look like an angel of your deepest, coral-brained desires.

Your eyes widened slightly.

Bucky, to his credit, didn’t even notice. Not at first. You padded closer, slowly, head tilting, taking in the strange sight of him submerged in water. It was such a human thing. So… inefficient. He just sat there. Soaking. Not even doing anything.

You hummed soundlessly, then began to untie the sash at your waist, the moment your robe dropped to the floor, Bucky stirred.

He cracked an eye open—and immediately sat bolt upright, splashing a bit of water. “What the—? What are you—?”

It was mean, honestly. The way the light hit the hard walls and floors and just bounced off of your body, accentuating the curve of your breasts, your waist, and he had to actually stop his brain from continuing. 

You stepped in, carefully lowering yourself into the water opposite him, sighing as the warmth soaked into your sore new muscles. Your legs were still unfamiliar, heavy and awkward when they weren’t being pulled by the tide. This felt… better.

Worse, if you asked Bucky. Since now you were wet, glistening, and naked in front of him. So willing, clueless, and wanting. 

You blinked, wide-eyed, confused. Your fingers trailed along the water’s surface. You looked around the space, then at him, like wasn’t this what people did?

“You’re naked,” he hissed. You looked down at yourself. Then at him. Then gave a little shrug like, yes, obviously? “I’m in here,” Bucky whispered, panicked, trying to cover himself with the foam.

You hummed, shrugging softly, then began to kneel into the tub with the most determined innocence he had ever seen, trying to get comfortable, somehow ending up leaning towards him.

Bucky cursed under his breath and tried to stand. Bad move. Worst move, actually. Sam would have the time of his life making fun of him for this for the rest of existence when this inevitably ended up making its way to his ears.

Because the moment he stood—half rising, trying to create distance, and grace, and dignity—his dick, which had been desperately not trying to behave, sprang forward through the bubbles like a traitor. Standing fully at attention. Hard and thick, barely inches from your wide-eyed, curious face.

You gasped softly, blinking in surprise, eyes going directly to it.

“Okay—nope,” he muttered, hands bracing on the edge of the tub. “This was a mistake. I need—space. Distance. Jesus—”

You leaned back slightly on your heels, blinking up at him, completely baffled. And good God if the sight wasn't almost enough to feed whatever fantasies he has in mind. 

Bucky swore and grabbed the nearest towel, fumbling to wrap it around his hips as he turned away from you so fast he nearly slipped. “Don’t—don’t look,” he said hoarsely. “That’s not—this is not—”

You made a face and a motion with you hands, mouthing does it hurt?

The innocent concern on your face made his cock twitch, he squeezed his eyes shut. “No. I’m not hurt.”

You pointed at the pitching tent in the towel again, as if to say "Why is it like that, then?"

He let out a helpless, breathless laugh, half hysterical. “Because my body is stupid,” he said. “And you’re beautiful. And naked. And sitting in my bath like it’s the most normal thing in the world.”

You stared at him, absorbing the groundbreaking information, then you scooted forward just a little, reaching out like you were going to help. Bucky snapped his head around. “Nope—no—sweetheart, please don’t try to fix it—”

You stopped immediately, hands hovering midair. He exhaled, shoulders sagging, voice softer now. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said gently. “This is just… a human thing. A me thing.”

You settled back, folding your hands in your lap like you’d been scolded but understood — mostly. Because you were watching him with that same soft, fascinated gaze. Like he was a puzzle you wanted to understand. Like you weren’t embarrassed — just interested.

He ran a hand through his hair, laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna be the death of me. You smiled and splashed him gently with a handful of sudsy water.

He laughed despite himself. “Okay. Out. Both of us. Nat’s gonna murder me.” You didn’t move.

You just looked at him, bright and trusting and completely unaware of how close he was to losing every ounce of self-control. Bucky groaned and offered you his hand. “C’mon, mermaid. Before I do something really stupid.”

He teased it, not even knowing how close to the truth he really was. 

The palace’s spare chamber had never looked more like a war zone.

Dresses were strewn across every surface—spilled from trunks, flung over chairs, draped across the bed in waves of silk, satin, and embroidered tulle. Shoes were scattered like casualties on the floor. Ribbons, gloves, and delicate sparkling jewelry were arranged on the vanity like tools of seduction.

And in the middle of it all stood Natasha Romanoff, her sleeves rolled up and her red hair twisted back, hands on her hips as she stared you down like a general surveying the battlefield.

“You,” she said, narrowing her eyes, “are going to look like a goddess tonight.”

You stood barefoot in the middle of the chaos, arms wrapped around yourself, looking equal parts excited and terrified. You couldn’t stop tugging nervously on your lip as your eyes flicked from the dresses to the door, like Bucky might burst in at any moment.

Nat caught the glance and smirked. “Don’t worry. He’s not allowed in here. I made sure of it.” She raised a brow. “Unless you want him to see you half-dressed.”

What followed could only be likened to a whirlpool, pulling you to the depths no matter how hard you tried to swim out of it, inevitably landing you in a sparkling light pink gown, with a matching ribbon on your hair, uncomfortable feet cages humans liked to call shoes, and standing by the punch watching your prince be flirted with by the entire fucking kingdom. 

Lady Lillian of Somewhere. The Marchioness of Someland, you didn't care to hear, to be perfectly honest, ears turning pink in anger watching them all fawn over what was yours. Someone with a ridiculous feather in her hair whose name you hadn’t caught but who laughed a little too loudly at everything Bucky said.

Hello? Don't they see you here?

Crystal chandeliers bathed the marble floor in warm golden light, making the specks of color dance like the way people were meant to be dancing at that moment. Musicians played a waltz in the corner. 

Noble guests in gowns and polished shoes twirled across the floor like petals in the wind. Laughter chimed like bells, champagne sparkled in cut glass flutes, and servants floated through the crowd with trays of delicate hors d'oeuvres.

He looked handsome tonight. Too handsome. His hair was tied back, his tailored navy suit pressed to perfection, every gold button gleaming. The sword at his hip was ceremonial, but it didn’t stop him from looking like he’d stepped straight out of one of the illustrated romance books Natasha had read aloud to you.

One of the girls reached forward and brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder, and your stomach flipped violently.

Natasha, beside you with a goblet of wine, leaned in. “You know you’re allowed to look angry,” she said out of the corner of her mouth. “But if you snap a fan in half, I will laugh.”

Bucky's eyes scanned the room, searching, the crease between his brows only softening when his gaze found yours. Like he could breathe. Like you were a little piece of the ocean breeze that made his lungs so easy to fill in nights where the walls closed in too tight. 

He looked at you like he might walk away from all of them if you so much as tilted your head.

You looked down instead, heart hammering in your chest. You couldn’t be angry—couldn’t blame him. You weren’t a duchess. You weren’t even technically human.

And nothing beyond a little coral-brained lovesick idiot who thought she had a chance with a man she's never spoken a word to. 

And he didn’t know.

Didn’t know you’d pulled him from the sea.

Didn’t know the ache in your chest was love, sharp and stupid and growing heavier every day.

A few minutes later, you felt his presence at your side, you huffed silently and looked away. Bucky reached for your hand.

“I was going to ask if you’d dance with me,” he said, then leaned a little closer. “But now I think I have to ask if you’ll even look at me.”

You turned slowly, meeting his gaze finally. He smiled softly, that look he only gave you spreading across his face like sunlight. “Hi.” Your shoulders relaxed.

He offered his hand, and in no time, he was waltzing you around, the slowest song of the night for sure. You thought this would be the moment he'd kiss you. Give in to the thoughts you knew he had, and just put you out of your misery.

Until it got interrupted by yet another stupid human girl thinking she could flirt with your prince.

You'd had enough, honestly.

It was stupid of you to think you ever had a chance. Should've listened to your father, to Kate… Hell, even Yelena! You should've never messed around with magic, or humans, or magic to mess around with humans. 

As soon as Bucky got pulled away yet another time, you swiftly made your way back to your chambers, eyes welling up. Your feet carried you through the marble halls faster than your thoughts could catch up.

If you were your father, the sea would be roaring by now. 

You had imagined it all—the look in his eyes, the breathless way he’d held you close, the near kiss, the way his hand had lingered on yours. You thought he felt it. You knew you did.

But maybe this was what humans did. Pretend. Smile. Flirt with one girl while another waited like a ghost behind a glass wall.

The nightgown Natasha had laid out earlier waited folded on your bed—long and soft, white like seafoam, cinched with the tiniest lace ribbon beneath the bust. It was delicate, dreamy.

You undressed slowly, sighing as the gown whispered over your skin. The cool fabric helped wash away the heat of the ballroom, but not the ache in your chest.

You moved to the vanity, taking out the ribbon and brushing your hair out with slow, thoughtful strokes, finally letting a few tears fall free, when you heard a knock. Probably Natasha bringing you tea and checking in on you, she was thoughtful like that, you learned quickly.

When you opened the door, the breeze moved your gown and hair slightly, revealing a very worried-looking Prince James Barnes. “Can I come in?”

Talking to you like he was the stray, and this wasn't his palace, with his staff, and his guards, and his everything. He waited a second and then asked quietly, "Please?"

He stood there in the soft lamplight of the hall, jacket gone, shirt undone at the collar. His hair was loose now, falling around his jaw, and he looked… unsure. Tense. But God, did he look delicious. 

You moved out of the way for him to come in, and his steps were slow, almost as if he was sure he was making a mistake but couldn't afford not to. 

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck. “You left.” You blinked and tilted your head. “I was looking for you,” he said, his eyes scanning your face. “You just… disappeared.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Your bare feet padded softly over the rug as you returned to the vanity, brushing again to keep your hands busy, pretending you weren’t trembling with embarrassment.

“You’re mad,” he said softly. You didn’t turn, barely catching his gaze through the vanity mirror. “You have every right to be,” he added, coming to now kneel in front of you, warm hands on your covered thighs.

Bucky’s jaw flexed, like the words hurt coming out. “I wanted to. I still do. But I didn’t want you to think I was just another one of those men tonight. That I only wanted you because you looked beautiful.” He swallowed. “Even though you did. You always do.”

You hated this trade. You wanted to be able to tell him, wanted to be able to just— well, you could.

You looked down at him, hand cradling his jaw, the stubble there tickling your palm. And the way he looked at you, like you'd disappear into seafoam the second he took his eyes from you. You knew you shouldn't, but just couldn't resist. 

You bit your lip, barely contemplating the thought, leaned down, brought his face to yours and kissed him softly. Bucky's fingers flexing on your thighs and squeezing, grounding himself. 

You kissed him like you were still underwater and he was the surface.

Bucky kissed you like he’d been starving for it, like every part of him had been aching to touch you again since the bath, since the market, since the second he laid eyes on you washed ashore.

His hands slid up your thighs slowly, as if he didn't want to scare you off, until they curved around your hips, thumbs brushing the thin fabric of your nightgown. He rose from his knees, towering above you now, lips still pressing harder against yours like he wasn’t ready to let you go.

Your fingers wrapped around the collar of his shirt as he pulled you close and up with him. He broke the kiss, as if looking for the moonlight reflecting off your eyes to tell him to stop, and when he found no trace of hesitation, once he saw your dazed look too eager to go back for more, he gave into it all. 

the second kiss was rougher, more possessive. His tongue explored your mouth like he wanted to plant a flag and claim you as his, strong arms pulling you up to wrap your legs around his waist, hands finfing the plush skin of your ass under the gown. 

Bucky walked both of you to bed, laying you down carefully onto the soft sheets, the fabric of the nightgown bunching around your hips the more they chased friction against his body.

You tugged him down again, mouths crashing softly, hungrily. Your fingers tangled in his hair, lips parting to taste the little gasps you’d been dreaming about for nights.

His hips pressed into yours and you felt him—hot, thick, hard between you—and your knees nearly gave out.

You whimpered into his mouth and it was the first sound he'd ever heard come from you. It didn't even register to either of you that it happened, you didn't pay close enough attention when you were distracted by the thick feeling of him between your legs.

Specially since you knew what he was packing. 

And when he finally, finally slid his hand between your thighs, when he touched you where you were softest and slickest, Bucky nearly broke.

“You’re so wet,” he whispered, voice cracking. “Is this all for me?” All you could do was whine and nod, begging him for more. You didn't even know what, but you knew his fingers between your folds were a balm to a fever you never wanted to be rid of. 

As he inserted one finger, and then two, he felt your gummy walls contract around him. "I never wanted anything like I want you." was muffled and whispered agasint the side of your mouth.

"Bucky, please…" Now, that registered. 

Bucky stopped dead in his tracks, "Y-you can talk?" And you looked surprised with yourself, nodding, trying our the words again, less hoarse this time.

Your thoughts were interrupted by his hand, again, curling his fingers in a come-here motion while his thumb rolled your clit in a slow circle that had you squeezing your eyes shut and letting out a whimper. 

"I know, baby, just— just feel it." You bit your lip and nodded, hands roaming his shoulders, then his chest, and finally settling on the laces of his pants. 

"Need you— please…" You palmed him, begging. He groaned, the sound coming from deep in his chest. He wanted to savor it, he really did, but something about the flashes of you in the bath and your voice now begging for him had him thinking he'd just have to make you overstimulated another time. 

"I— fuck," He took his hand from between your legs, getting a disapproving whine out of you, and managed to barely get his pants down enough to free his cock. He stroked himself, the schlick sound making your cheeks pink, and leaned back over you, spreading your legs wider. 

He slid the head of his cock up and down your soaked slit, bumping your clit in the process and making both of you hiss, and notched the head in. 

Every inch he pushed in was nother kiss, another nibble, another nudge he gave the straps of your nightgown to make it fall away from your shoulder. His mouth lapped at every inch of skin it could until he was buried at the hilt. 

"You feel so good, baby— fuck."

You whimpered, the fullness being too much to think of anything but. "So— so full, James, please…"

Bucky slowly started rocking his hips, the tip of him kissing your cervix every time and dragging over that sweet spot that had you grabbing the headboard to prevent from letting the entire palace know what you were up to. 

"You're doing so— shit, so fucking good—"

"It was me—" You gulped, your brain coming abck to you for a moment. "I— I saved you, oh!, during the sto-o-rm." Breathy little words left your mouth as you felt a tight coil in your stomach getting worse by the second. 

He laughed once, breathless and disbelieving, then kissed you like he’d been holding his breath for years. Like the world had narrowed down to this moment alone. "I knew you were real, fuck — I knew I wasn't dreaming of an angel."

His thrusts got more erratic, and he felt you clench around him, "Let me feel it, just— just let go." And as his thumb found your clit again, that exactly what you did.

You hid your face in his neck as pleasure crashed over you like angry waves would take a ship under, and he followed close behind, filling you up with hot spurts of cum, 

“You feel—fuck, you feel like heaven,” he groaned, forehead pressed to yours. “You were made for this. For me.”

As he lifted himself just enough to look at you after, he saw the moonlit glow over your face, and paid no mind to the waves that started to crash outside. “I love your voice,” he whispered finally, kissing just below your ear. “But I loved you even before I ever heard it.”

He had found his angel, and you finally got your prince.